Rendezvous

Chapter 66 Rendezvous

Loran sat crouching on the steps of the ruins, a cheap cigarette dangling from his lips, his brow furrowed. Reinhardt leaned against the wall beside him, also listening to the sounds from afar. The two exchanged a glance, but neither spoke.

The sound was as loud as thunder. Loran's hands began to tremble. He mentally re-unfolded the map, showing the twelve oil tanks in Lower Riga Port, their location, spacing, and burial depth. He calculated the numbers in his mind: fifteen meters between tanks, two hundred tons of oil per tank, two thousand four hundred tons of oil burning simultaneously—how powerful would the shockwave be? How far would it travel? Could it be heard four hundred kilometers away?

He closed his eyes and continued listening. The second wave of explosions followed, more muffled and heavier than the first, as if something was collapsing underground.

That was the sound of a concrete structure collapsing. The oil tanks were buried underground; only the inlet/outlet ports and ventilation pipes were above ground. To collapse the concrete structure, the explosives would have to be inserted through the ventilation pipes or poured in through the flange joints of the inlet/outlet ports. The ones capable of this weren't Campbell's forty-seven tanks, but Ramorini's men.

They had already infiltrated and were ready, just waiting for this moment.

Loran opened his eyes, turned around, and stared southeast. Not at Port Regga, but at Wadi Rum. Campbell's tanks had departed from Wadi Rum, taking the southern route to bypass Port Regga. Three hundred kilometers, six hours. If all went well, they should have reached the outskirts of Port Regga by four in the morning. What time was it now? He reached for his watch and held it to his eyes, using the distant firelight for illumination. Four thirty-seven. Campbell had arrived. But there wasn't enough time; he hadn't acted. It was Ramolini who acted. Campbell's mission wasn't to blow up the bomb, but to provide cover. If Ramolini succeeded, Campbell would retrieve him. If Ramolini failed, Campbell would rush in. Now the explosion had occurred; Ramolini had succeeded. But what about Ramolini himself?

Loran clenched his fist. The man was a fifty-two-year-old veteran who had spent thirty years in Africa, his fingers deformed from gripping a pen. He might not leave, but instead remain in the command room, calmly watching the glass in front of him shatter, awaiting his trial.

"Reinhardt," Loran asked.

"exist."

"The fuel depot exploded."

Reinhardt was stunned. He looked at Loran, then at the ever-growing flame in the east.

"Two thousand four hundred tons of fuel, all gone. Rommel's tanks can't move, his trucks can't run, and his eighty thousand men are going to go hungry. He has to retreat. Not tomorrow, not the day after, but now. Every minute is a waste, and he can't afford to waste a second longer, because our main force will soon surround them, and what follows will be a fierce battle to resupply them."

Reinhardt stared at him, his eyes darting around. "Then what are we waiting for?"

"Wait until the gunfire stops," Lorraine said.

Reinhardt was stunned. "What?"

"The gunfire from the east of the city," Loran said. "Rommel isn't stupid. The moment the explosion happened, he knew his oil depot was finished. But he won't retreat immediately. He needs to confirm, to verify, to see exactly how many men we have, to figure out what's happening in his rear. What will he do? He'll send troops to probe, to attack our positions, to see if we still have our main force. If our positions are still firing, if our lines are still holding, he'll assume our main force is still intact. He won't dare move. His 80,000 men will be stuck here, waiting and seeing, consuming his last bit of oil."

He looked Reinhardt into the eyes. "So we have to wait. Wait for his probing to end, wait for him to withdraw his troops, wait for him to confirm that we really only have this many men. Then we'll leave."

Reinhardt's hands were trembling. He gripped the cigarette so tightly the paper was crumpled. "How long will it take?"

Loran looked at the eastern sky. The firelight was still flickering, but it was beginning to dim. The oil wouldn't burn for long. Two thousand four hundred tons—it sounded like a lot, but it burned quickly. Once the fire was extinguished, Rommel would begin his operation. "Before dawn," he said, "before dawn, his probing will end. After dawn, he will withdraw. He'll evacuate the Italians from the south, move the tanks back from the east, and concentrate all available troops in the north, waiting to retreat. Then, the south will be empty. We'll go from there."

Reinhardt looked at him. "Are you sure?"

Loran didn't answer. He was never sure. That's how war is; nothing is certain. All he could do was guess what Rommel would do.

He crouched down, took the map out of his pocket, and spread it on the ground. Reinhardt crouched beside him and brought his lighter closer. The light was small, just enough to illuminate a corner of the map. But Loran didn't need to see the whole map. He could draw those lines with his eyes closed.

"Lamorini's men set off from the port, took the eastern route, and circled around to the south of the oil depot. There was a dry riverbed there that could hide people. They buried explosives in the riverbed and rushed in when the patrol changed shifts."

His finger moved across the map. "The patrols change shifts every two hours, with a ten-minute gap between shifts. Lamorini prepared for this for a long time, memorizing the shift change times of every sentry. He knows when to go in and when to come out."

Reinhardt listened, his brow furrowed deeply. "Then how did he get out?"

Loran's finger stopped at the location of Porto Regga. He did not answer.

Reinhardt understood. He lowered his head and said nothing more.

Loran put the map away. He stood up and looked at the eastern sky. The firelight had dimmed considerably, leaving only a faint, dark red glow that slowly faded on the horizon. Dawn was approaching.

"Campbell will be waiting outside the port of Brega. If Ramorini succeeds, he'll take them away. If he fails, he'll rush in. Now the explosion has happened, Ramorini has succeeded. Campbell will take them and head south, along the southern route, around to Wadi Rum. They should arrive in three days."

He turned to look at Reinhardt. "We'll see them in three days."

Reinhardt stared at him. "Three days? We're going to have to wait here for three more days?"

Loran shook his head. "It's not that we're waiting. We can leave anytime Rommel finishes his probing. The key is how many people we can evacuate."

Lorraine's Adam's apple bobbed.

"How many of your soldiers can hold out? How many of those you take out will survive? Given the current medical conditions, I'm afraid less than half will make it. The decision is yours."

Loran stated it calmly, but to Reinhardt it was like a thunderbolt.

"They are all my soldiers, my brothers..."

""

Loran interrupted him. "I know, aren't those who went through war good brothers? Who hasn't seen bloodshed and sacrifice? But it's precisely at times like these that you have to make the best decision. Your hesitation isn't kindness; it will harm everyone."

Reinhardt stared blankly; he had never considered such a thing before, even though he had made up his mind to fight and die with his soldiers in the city.

"I understand. I am Battalion Commander Reinhardt, and I am responsible for the soldiers who are still alive," he said, his voice choked with emotion.

Reinhardt left, and he ordered everyone to assemble outside the hospital.

Lorraine leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and listened to him continue.

"The Germans are leaving," he said hoarsely, his voice extremely weak. "Just today, our allies blew up their fuel reserves, their tanks can't move, their trucks can't run, they have to go."

No one speaks.

"South of the city, the Italians. They ran ahead of us. After they all ran away, we followed behind."

Run out, run into the desert. Campbell's convoy is waiting for us in the distance. We'll see them then. Those who can walk, follow me. Those who can't walk, put them on stretchers. Those who can't be carried—"

Reinhardt looked at the stunned soldiers below, revealing an innocent expression he had never shown on the battlefield. He suddenly knelt on the ground and wailed loudly.

"Those you can't lift, stay here!"

The room quieted down, and Loran came out and patted him on the shoulder.

"That's all my plan. If you have any complaints, take them out on me alone. After you're done yelling, pack your bags and get ready to leave."

The German movements disappeared quickly. After observing the retreat of the Italian troops in the south through binoculars, Loran and his team sent out an advance team. After confirming that no one was left, they withdrew from Tobruk.

Their objective was to go north, rendezvous with Campbell and his men, and then proceed with the next phase of operations.

They arrived three days later.

Two thousand three hundred people set out, and about eighteen hundred remained when they arrived. Of the remaining five hundred, some collapsed along the way, some got separated from the group, and some encountered a German reconnaissance team on the last day and were scattered in the desert. No one looked back to find them. In the desert, looking back is a luxury, as luxurious as looking back to find someone who has sunk into the water. You can only move forward, forward, and forward, because stopping means you will become one of those who sink.

Lorraine remembered the sun on that last day. It hung in the sky, motionless, like a red-hot iron ball, baking all the air into scorching sand. His lips were cracked, and with each breath, a trickle of blood seeped out; the blood was salty, and licking it into his mouth only made him feel thirstier. The wound on his leg had festered, and every step made his vision blur, but he dared not stop. He had seen people stop before, sitting behind the dunes saying they would rest for a while, and then never getting up again.

The camp wasn't large. A dozen or so trucks formed a semi-circle, with several tents pitched in the middle, and ammunition boxes and oil drums piled outside the tents. Several soldiers stood there, guns at the ready, watching this group of people who had emerged from the desert warily. They wore the same uniforms as Loran, but were much cleaner and more orderly, like people from another world.