The Battle for Agella

Chapter 68 The Battle for Agella

After Loran left the tent, Campbell stood in front of the map, his finger resting on the thickest red line north of Tobruk, motionless.

The three men in the tent remained silent. Moshead sat on the ammunition box, lit the crumpled cigarette, took a deep drag, and watched the smoke swirl in the dim light. Leclerc walked to the edge of the tent, lifted the curtain, and quietly watched the people who had just evacuated from Tobruk.

Leclerc lowered the curtain and turned around.

"Campbell," he asked, "are our men ready?"

Campbell removed his fingers from the map, letting them hang at his sides. He didn't answer immediately. After a moment, he rubbed his temples: "Integration complete. Divided into twelve teams based on troop type, each captain is a skilled combatant."

Leclerc nodded.

"Where will Rommel go?" he asked.

Campbell's finger landed on the map again. The coastal highway from Tobruk to Tripoli, over a thousand kilometers long, was built by the Italian army in North Africa over several years. The road wasn't wide, barely wide enough for two trucks to pass side-by-side, but the surface was smooth and the roadbed firmly compacted; it was the best highway along the entire North African coastline. Rommel had fought his way from Tripoli to Tobruk along this very road.

"The coastal highway," Campbell said. "He has to take the coastal highway. His tank is out of gas, his truck is out of gas, and they can't get through the desert. There are no roads in the desert, and it takes twice as much fuel for every kilometer. He can't afford it."

His fingers moved along the winding coastline.

"From Tobruk to Tripoli, it's 1,200 kilometers. His fuel supply will only last ten days. Ten days to travel 1,200 kilometers, that's an average of 120 kilometers a day. His tanks can travel 40 kilometers per hour on the road, so traveling 120 kilometers a day isn't difficult. But he can't just travel; he also needs to fight. Our 12th Detachment will jointly block and encircle him, chipping away at his infantry strength, attacking his flanks, shelling his vanguard, fiercely assaulting his rearguard, and intercepting his supplies. Every time he stops, he burns fuel for another day. Every extra day he burns fuel, he's in greater danger of breaking down."

His finger stopped at the port of Brega.

"Here, Lower Regga. Judging from his retreat route, it's a necessary passage. Although the oil depots have been destroyed, the port remains. The Germans might ship oil here by sea. If Rommel can hold out until he reaches Brega and obtains that oil, he can reorganize his defenses. Therefore, we cannot let him reach Lower Regga. We must intercept him before he arrives at Lower Regga."

Moshead stood up and walked to the front of the map.

"You make it sound so easy," he said, his voice hoarse, a cigarette between his fingers. "He has 60,000 men, we have 20,000. He has 200 tanks, we have 31. Even if he runs out of fuel, his cannons can still fire, and his soldiers can still shoot. What are you going to use to stop him?"

Campbell's finger stopped fifty kilometers west of Porto Regga. There was a place there, marked in very small print: Agella.

"Here. Agella. The coastal highway makes a bend here, changing from east-west to north-south. At the bend, the sea is to the north and salt flats are to the south. Cars can't drive on the salt flats; their wheels will get stuck. So Rommel could only travel by road, and could only go through that bend."

His finger drew a circle on that bend.

"If we wait for him there, blocking his advance force in the bend and his follow-up force on the highway, he won't be able to get through. If he can't get through, he'll have to stop. And if he stops, he'll be waiting to die."

Moshead stared at the bend in the road, his cigarette ash falling to the ground, but he didn't flick it.

"You are going to fight Rommel at Agailah."

"right."

"What does Loran mean?"

"He will definitely do the same," Campbell said.

Moshead fell silent, no longer speaking. He threw his cigarette butt on the ground, stomped it out, and looked up at Campbell.

"Are you sure he'll leave Agailah?"

Campbell did not answer.

"I'm not sure," he said. "I'll go ask Lorraine."

Campbell went outside the tent and found Loran on the edge of the camp.

Lorraine was leaning against the back wheel of a truck, legs stretched out, head resting on the rim, eyes closed. He thought Lorraine was asleep, but when he got closer, he found him awake, eyes half-open, staring at the sun-bleached sky above.

Campbell squatted down next to him, took a compressed biscuit out of his pocket, broke it in half, and handed him the larger half.

Lorraine took it and took a bite. The biscuit was as hard as a rock, making a crunchy sound in his mouth, like chewing a handful of flour mixed with sand. But he chewed it slowly and carefully, chewing each bite thoroughly before swallowing.

Campbell squatted down next to him and took a bite too. The two of them sat there, chewing on the rock-hard biscuit, neither of them saying a word.

After a long while, Loran finally spoke.

"Agela?"

Campbell paused for a moment while chewing the biscuit.

"right."

Loran didn't answer. A message flashed through his mind. Agailah, in late 1941, Rommel held off the British pursuit here, stabilizing the front line for three months—one of Rommel's most famous battles. But that was when Rommel had oil. This time, he didn't.

"The coastal highway bends there, with the sea to the north and salt flats to the south. Rommel could only get through that bend," Loran said. "He would be very slow. The advance troops would scout ahead, and the rear guard would bring up the rear. His tanks would run out of fuel and couldn't go too fast. His soldiers would be too hungry to move. He would have to gather all the vehicles together, form a long line, and let them pass one after another. That line would be very long."

Loran stuffed the last bite of biscuit into his mouth and chewed for a long time before swallowing.

"Once his vanguard passes the bend, we'll block the road. We'll cut him in two by attacking the middle. The front won't be able to get through, and the rear won't be able to get up. He'll be stuck in the bend, unable to move forward or backward. When he can't hold on any longer, he'll surrender on his own."

Campbell crouched there, looking at Lorraine's profile. His face was covered in dust and scabs, his cheekbones protruding high, his eye sockets deep-set, and his lips cracked and scabbed over. But his eyes, those eyes gazing at the sky, were bright, as bright as stones in the desert baked by the sun all day, still glowing in the night.

"Do you think Rommel will surrender?" Campbell asked.

Loran shook his head.

"No. He's Rommel. A German Lieutenant General, the Desert Fox, Hitler's favorite general. He won't surrender. He'll fight to the last drop of oil, the last bullet, the last man. Then he'll lead his men into the desert, westward, to Tripoli, to Tunisia, to the coast. He'll wait for the Germans to bring oil from the sea, then come back. He'll keep fighting until Hitler orders him to stop, or until all his men are dead."

He looked at Campbell.

"So we have to intercept him before he reaches the sea. We can't let him get to Tripoli, we can't let him wait for the German ships. We have to trap him in the desert, until he runs out of fuel and food, until he has nowhere to go. At that point, he will have two choices: surrender or die."

"Even if he doesn't die, I will still give him a big gift."

Campbell nodded. He stood up, brushed the sand off his knees, turned and walked away, his figure forlorn.

Lorraine leaned against the back wheel of the truck, watching Campbell's figure disappear behind the tent.

He closed his eyes. In his mind, the coastal highway stretched out before him, starting from Tobruk, heading west, passing through Lower Rega, Sirte, Misrata, Tripoli, and all the way to Tunisia, to that sea he had only seen in photographs, a sea as blue as ink.

The road is long. Over a thousand kilometers. It will take Rommel ten days to travel, and ten days is enough time for a lot to happen.

He opened his eyes. It was getting dark. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, leaving only a dark red streak, like a gaping wound. The desert was beginning to cool. The wind was blowing from the north.

Leclerc came over and sat down next to him.

"Are you sure he's going to Agella?" Leclerc asked.

"He will leave," Lorraine said. "He has to leave, because there is no other way."

Leclerc nodded. He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Lorraine. The paper was covered with names, written in neat handwriting; it was Leclerc himself.

"Your men," Leclerc said, "two thousand three hundred when they came out of Tobruk, and eighteen hundred remain. Here's the list."

Loran took the paper and, using the last glimmer of daylight, looked at the names one by one. He didn't recognize most of them. The only one he recognized was Reinhardt, the Australian battalion commander who had spent three days and three nights in the ruins before leading 2,300 men out of Tobruk. Reinhardt's name was written first, followed by a string of numbers and a code.

He folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

"Leclerc," he said.

"exist."

"Do you know what Rommel is thinking right now?"

Leclerc looked at him.

Loran stared at the increasingly dark sky, his voice very soft, as if he were talking to himself.

He was thinking about how he lost. He wondered why he had lost to a subjugated people. He wondered how his 80,000 men, his 300 tanks, and his title of Desert Fox could have been defeated by a bunch of remnants.

He even wondered how he would explain himself to Hitler, to the German people, and to the soldiers who died in the desert.

Leclerc did not speak.

Lorraine continued.

"He'll think about it for a long time. He'll think all the way from Tobruk to Agaira, from Agaira to Tripoli, from Tripoli to Tunisia. By the time he figures it out, he'll be out of fuel, his soldiers will be starving, and his officers will be nowhere to be found. Then he'll realize that he didn't lose on the battlefield, he lost in his own mind."

Leclerc asked.

"You knew you would win from the very beginning?"

Loran did not answer.

He stared at the sky, which had now completely darkened. The star was very bright, as if someone had lit a lamp far away.

"I don't know," he said. "That's how war is. Nothing is certain. All we can do is guess what Rommel will do. I guess he'll go to Agaira, and I guess he'll hold out until the very end, until his soldiers can't move anymore, until his officers can't think of any more solutions, until he himself has to admit that he's lost this war."

He paused.

"If I guess all the answers right, we win. If one of them is wrong, we lose. Then I'm blamed by everyone. There's no way around it; someone always has to be held responsible for the war."

Leclerc fell silent. He sat down next to Lorraine, also gazing at the star.

After a long time, he finally spoke.

"Lorraine," he said, "have you thought about what you'll do after the war?"

Loran was taken aback.

"I don't know," he murmured. "Maybe I'll go to the East to take a look."

Leclerc smiled. It was a strange smile, like a flower suddenly blooming in the desert on his sun-darkened face.

"And you?" Lorraine asked.

Leclerc thought for a moment.

"I want to build France up better than it was three hundred years ago."

The two fell silent.

Together they watched the star rise slowly into the sky, shining like the only light in the entire desert.

At the same time, Rommel marched through the desert for three days.

His convoy started in Tobruk in neat formation: tanks in front, trucks in the middle, and infantry at the rear, heading west along the coastal highway. But after less than a hundred kilometers, the formation broke down. Tanks ran out of fuel and pulled over one after another. Drivers jumped out, lifted the hoods, stared at the nearly empty fuel gauges, and didn't know what to do. Some tank crews pushed their tanks off the road, covered them with sand, noted the coordinates, and then climbed onto the trucks that followed. Others, reluctant to leave, sat beside their tanks, waiting for the fuel trucks that might never arrive.

Then the British reinforcements arrived. Not bombers, but fighter planes. Hurricanes, flying low over the road from Egypt, strafing the huddled trucks and tanks with machine guns. No bombs, no rockets, just machine guns. 7.7mm bullets thudded against the truck canvas canopies like raindrops hitting a roof. But it was a different story when they hit the fuel tanks. Those trucks ran on gasoline, and there was a little left in the tanks, enough to get from Tobruk to Tripoli. The bullets pierced the tanks, gasoline leaked out, flowed onto the scorching engines, and burst into flames. Flames leaped up from under the trucks, licking the canvas canopies, the cabs, and the soldiers huddled together inside. Some jumped off, engulfed in flames, rolling on the sand. Others didn't have time to jump and were burned to death inside the trucks.

Rommel stood beside the command vehicle, binoculars in hand, watching the convoy three kilometers away, battered and ravaged by machine gun fire. A Hurricane fighter jet pulled up above the convoy, its wings gleaming silver in the sunlight, turned, and swooped down again. The machine guns roared back to life, tracer rounds drawing streaks of orange-red in the morning light as they struck another truck. That truck, loaded with ammunition, exploded in a massive fireball that turned half the sky crimson.

Von Waldenfels stood beside him, his face pale.

"General, the British planes are increasing in number. Yesterday there were only two, today six have arrived. How many will there be tomorrow? Ten? Twenty?"

Rommel didn't answer. He put down his binoculars, walked back to the command vehicle, and spread the map on the hood. He had only covered less than 100 kilometers of the 1,200-kilometer coastal highway from Tobruk to Tripoli. There were still 1,100 kilometers to go. At this pace, it would take him a month.

"General." Von Waldenfels' voice rang in my ears.

Rommel raised his head.

"A call from the 15th Armored Division. They've run out of fuel, and all their tanks are immobile. The division commander is asking if it's possible to destroy the tanks and have the personnel retreat on foot."

Rommel's fingers gripped the edge of the map tightly.

"Don't blow it up. Push the tank off the road and cover it with sand. Note the coordinates. Send someone to drive it when the fuel arrives."

Von Waldenfels hesitated for a moment. "But General, when will the fuel arrive?"

Rommel did not answer. The oil depots in Lower Rega had been bombed, and Tripoli's reserves would only last for half a month. Oil from mainland Germany would have to be loaded onto ships, sail from Italy, cross the Mediterranean, and evade British submarines and planes before reaching Tripoli. This would take at least a month. A month later, his tanks would be nothing but scrap metal.

But he couldn't say it. He couldn't tell his chief of staff that his troops might never get enough fuel. He couldn't tell his soldiers that they might never go home again.

"They will arrive," Rommel said. "The Führer has given the order. The fuel will be shipped from Italy. All we have to do is hold out until that day."

Von Waldenfels didn't ask any more questions. He saluted, turned, and left.

Rommel stood alone beside the command vehicle, watching the convoy slowly moving westward. The sun was high in the sky, turning the sand white. On the highway, trucks damaged by machine gun fire still emitted smoke, the black fumes rising into the air and being dispersed by the wind. A dozen or so bodies lay by the roadside, some covered in uniforms, others lying face up, tanned black by the sun. No one came to collect the bodies. In the desert, the dead have no time.

He crouched down, pulled a map from his pocket, and spread it on the sand. From Tobruk to Tripoli, it was 1200 kilometers. He divided the route into three sections. The first section, from Tobruk to Lower Riga, was 400 kilometers. This was the most difficult, with the closest British pursuers, the most aircraft, and the most scarce fuel. The second section, from Riga to Tripoli, was 800 kilometers. This section was easier; the British pursuers would slow down, and there would be fewer aircraft. But fuel was still insufficient. The third section, from Tripoli to Tunisia, he didn't draw, because he wasn't sure he could reach Tripoli.

His finger finally stopped on Agaila.

Agella. The coastal road bends here, changing from east-west to north-south. At the bend, the sea is to the north, and salt flats to the south. Vehicles can't travel on the salt flats; their wheels will get stuck. So his convoy could only pass through that bend. If the British were waiting for him there, his advance troops would be stuck in the bend, and his follow-up troops would be stuck on the road. Unable to advance or retreat. He would be stuck there, waiting for his fuel to run out, for his soldiers to starve, and for the British to rush in.

Rommel tapped his fingers on the bend.

"Von Waldenfels," he called out.

Von Waldenfels ran over.

"Who is guarding Agaila?"

Von Waldenfels paused for a moment. He opened his notebook and searched for a long time.

"General, there are no of our troops in Agaila at the moment. The Italians used to have a battalion there, but they went north after receiving orders to retreat yesterday. Agaila is empty now."

Rommel remained silent.

Empty. The British will pass by, wait there, and intercept him. They'll park their tanks on either side of the bend, set up their guns on the edge of the saline-alkali land, and ambush their infantry behind the dunes on either side of the road. Once his vanguard enters the bend, they'll open fire. Block him in the front, cut him off in the back. He'll be stuck there, unable to advance or retreat. Then they'll wait. Wait until his fuel runs out, until his soldiers starve, until his officers start thinking about how to explain themselves to the Führer. Until he himself has to admit that he's lost the battle.

"Pass on my orders," Rommel said.

Von Waldenfels, stand at attention.

"The 5th Light Armored Division, with one tank company attached to an infantry battalion, shall depart immediately for Agaira. Upon arrival, deploy defenses on both sides of the bend. Do not allow the British to pass."

Von Waldenfels hesitated for a moment. "General, the 5th Light Panzer Division is also running low on fuel. From Tobruk to Agaira, it's 400 kilometers. From their current position, it's at least another 300 kilometers to Agaira. After those 300 kilometers, they'll run out of fuel."

Rommel looked up at von Waldenfels.

"I know," he said, "but they have to go. If we lose Agaira, we're all finished. We can still walk without oil. But if we lose Agaira, we won't even be able to walk."

von Waldenfels fell silent.

Rommel stood up, put away the map, and walked back to the command vehicle. He sat on the narrow canvas bed, took off his boots, and rubbed his ankles. His ankles were swollen, not from injury, but from standing for too long. Every day in North Africa, he stood for more than ten hours—beside the command vehicle, in front of the map, on the sand dunes, holding binoculars, watching the endless battlefields. His ankles were long swollen, his knees were swollen, and his back ached. But he couldn't stop. To stop meant to admit defeat.

He closed his eyes and lay down on the canvas bed.

In his mind, the bend in Agailah appeared before his eyes. The road came from the east, turning into a straight line before the bend, cutting straight between two sand dunes. The dunes were not high, only a dozen meters, but very steep, as if they had been cut by a knife.

The highway cuts through the sand dunes, makes a 90-degree turn, and then runs north-south, heading west along the coastline.

The bend was narrow, only wide enough for two trucks to pass side by side. If the British set up a few cannons on the dunes, they could block the entire bend. His convoy would be stuck there, unable to move forward or backward. Then the British planes would come, the tanks would come, and the infantry would come. His 60,000 men would be stuck there, waiting to be killed or surrender.

Rommel opened his eyes.

He wouldn't let that happen. He sent the 5th Light Armored Division to Agailah, a tank company and an infantry battalion, enough to hold out for three days. Within three days, his main force would arrive. Once there, he could set up a defensive line at Agailah to hold off the British pursuit while waiting for fuel to arrive by sea.

Three days. He only needs three days.

He sat up in bed, put on his boots, and went outside the command vehicle. The sun was already setting, turning the desert a dark red. In the distance, the convoy that had been moving westward had disappeared into the distance, leaving only the smoke from the burned trucks on the highway, the black smoke starkly bright in the setting sun.

von Waldenfels walked over.

"General, the 5th Light Armored Division has departed. One tank company, twelve Panzer IV tanks, and one infantry battalion, three hundred men. They are expected to arrive in Agairah by tomorrow morning."

Rommel nodded.

"And," von Waldenfels hesitated for a moment, "a telegram has arrived from Berlin."

Rommel took the telegram. It was from Keitel. The telegram was long, but its core message was only one sentence: "The Führer has instructed that the North African front must be held. Fuel will be airlifted as soon as possible, but it will take time. In the meantime, there must be no retreat."

Rommel stared at those lines for a long time. There was no retreat. No oil, no ammunition, no food; his 60,000 men had to remain in this desert, waiting for airlifts that might never arrive.

Keitel was in Berlin, in his warm office, sipping coffee, looking at maps, and drawing lines on paper with a red pen. He drew a line and said, "Hold this place," and Rommel would have to pay with thousands of lives to fill that line. He drew an arrow and said, "Attack there," and Rommel would have to use tens of thousands of tons of fuel to push that arrow. But where was the fuel? Where was the ammunition? Where was the food? At sea, in Italian ports, behind the blockade of British submarines and planes. Keitel couldn't see any of that. He could only see the lines and arrows on the map.

Rommel folded the telegram and put it in his pocket.

"Reply," he said. "The 5th Light Armored Division has been ordered to deploy in Agaira. The main force is retreating towards the port of Brega. We only have enough fuel for one week. Request an immediate airlift of at least one month's worth of fuel reserves. Otherwise, the Agaira defenses cannot be held for long."

He paused.

"Also, tell the Führer that I will hold North Africa. But please give me time."

The communications soldier left.

Rommel stood beside the command vehicle, gazing at the western sky. The sun had already set, leaving only a final ray of light, burning a dark red line on the horizon. At the end of that line lay Agaira. Three hundred kilometers away, tanks and infantry were rushing to defend a bend in the road, to hold it for three days. Three days later, his main force would arrive. Three days later, he could establish a defensive line at Agaira, and he could wait for the fuel to arrive by sea.

But he knew the British would definitely not give him three days.

He crouched down, took the map out of his pocket, and spread it on the sand. He circled the location of Agaira. He drew an X for the location of Lower Rega. He drew a dot for the location of Tripoli.

He put the map away and stood up. His legs were trembling, not from fear, but from exhaustion. He hadn't slept a wink for three days and two nights since leaving Tobruk. With every step, his ankles ached as if nailed to the ground. His back ached, his neck ached, his whole body ached. But he couldn't stop; stopping meant admitting defeat.

He walked back to the command vehicle, lay down on the canvas cot, and closed his eyes.

In his dream, the bend in Agailah appeared before him. The highway came from the east, turning into a straight line before the bend, cutting straight between two sand dunes. Standing on the dunes was a man in a French military uniform, short and thin, his face covered in sand and scabs, his lips cracked in several places. The man looked at him without speaking.

Rommel walked over and stood in front of the man.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The man didn't answer. He just stared at Rommel for a long time. Then he smiled. It was a strange smile, on his utterly exhausted face, like the kind of smile one has when someone has walked too long in the desert and finally sees water.

Rommel suddenly opened his eyes.

The command vehicle was pitch black. Outside, the desert wind howled. In the distance, the convoy moving westward had disappeared from sight, its taillights no longer visible. Only the occasional explosion could be heard, as if British planes were still pursuing and firing.

He sat up, reached for his watch, and brought it to his eyes. It was three in the morning. He had slept for less than four hours, as if it had only been a blink of an eye.

He put on his boots and stepped out of the command vehicle.

He has to be faster than them.

"Von Waldenfels," he called out.

Von Waldenfels ran out of the tent next to him, his uniform still unbuttoned.

"General."

"Where is the 5th Light Armored Division located?"

Von Waldenfels paused for a moment. "General, they only set off at dawn and should have just arrived at the port of Brega."

Rommel glanced at his watch. 3:10. From Brega port to Agaira, fifty kilometers. Tanks could get there in an hour. But infantry would take two hours.

"Send them a telegram. Tell them to advance at full speed, don't wait for the infantry. The tanks go first, the infantry follow."

"Agila must be captured before the British arrive."

Von Waldenfels hesitated for a moment. "But General, once the tanks reach Argail, without infantry cover, it will be difficult to hold them."

Rommel looked at him.

"I know," he said, "but they have to bluff. If we lose Agailah, we're all finished. Even without infantry, we can defend with tanks. Without tanks, we can't even defend."

Von Waldenfels saluted, then turned and ran.

Rommel stood alone beside the command vehicle, gazing at the western sky. Dawn was approaching. The morning light surged in from the east, turning the sand a greyish-white. In the distance, the convoy moving westward had disappeared from sight, leaving only the smoke rising from the burned-out trucks on the highway. The black smoke appeared faint in the dawn light, like strands of grey ribbons, scattered by the wind.

He crouched down, took the map from his pocket, and spread it on the sand. He circled the location of Agaira. He crossed out the location of Lower Regga. From Regga to Agaira, it was fifty kilometers. His tank would take an hour to travel that distance. The British tanks would have to start from Wadi Rum, take the southern route, and circle around to Agaira. The southern route was twice as long as the road, at least a hundred kilometers. The British tanks weren't fast; the Matilda had a maximum speed of twenty kilometers per hour. A hundred kilometers would take them five hours.

Rommel tapped his fingers on the map.

Five hours. His tank could reach Agailah in an hour from the port of Brega. The British tanks would take five hours. He was four hours faster than the British. Four hours was enough time for his tank to set up defenses on both sides of the bend, dig trenches, set up machine guns, and construct a simple defensive line.

He put away the map and stood up. Dawn had broken. The sun rose in the east, turning the desert a golden hue. In the distance, the convoy that had been moving westward reappeared. It wasn't his convoy; it was the British's. Thirty-one Matildas, lined up in a straight line, approached from the eastern horizon. The dust kicked up by their tracks fluttered like yellow flags in the morning light.

Rommel raised his telescope.

The tanks were still far away, at least ten kilometers. But he could already make out their outlines. They were short and boxy, with turrets in the middle of the hull and short gun barrels. The Matilda, an infantry tank, had armor up to 78 millimeters thick; his Panzer IV tanks couldn't penetrate it from 500 meters away. But it was slow, with a maximum speed of 20 kilometers per hour. Ten kilometers would take it half an hour. Was half an hour enough for his tank to get from Lower Regga to Agailah? No. Lower Regga to Agailah was 50 kilometers; it would take his tank an hour. The British tanks could reach Agailah in half an hour. He was half an hour slower than the British.

Rommel lowered his binoculars. His hands were trembling. Not from cold, but from anger.

"Von Waldenfels!" he shouted.

Von Waldenfels ran over.

"Where is the 5th Light Armored Division located?"

Von Waldenfels opened his notebook. "General, they've just passed the port of Brega and are heading towards Agella. They're expected to arrive in forty minutes."

Forty minutes. The British tanks can arrive in thirty minutes. He is ten minutes slower than the British.

Ten minutes. On the battlefield, ten minutes can decide the outcome of a battle.

Rommel stood there, watching the British tanks draw ever closer. Thirty-one tanks, lined up in a straight line, rolled in from the eastern horizon. The dust kicked up by their tracks had already risen into the air, like a giant yellow flag fluttering in the morning light.

He has to be faster than them.

"Send a telegram to the 5th Light Panzer Division," Rommel said swiftly. "Full speed ahead. Don't stop. We must capture Agailah before the British arrive. Otherwise, court-martial them."

"In addition, the entire army should prepare for battle and launch a heavy firepower attack on the armed forces in the east in ten minutes, and must annihilate them completely."