The Curve

Chapter 69 The Curve

May 20, 1941, 4:00 AM. Agailah.

The dawn in the desert comes like a knife.

First, a grayish-white line cut across the eastern horizon, separating the sky from the earth. Then, that line slowly widened, becoming a ribbon, a patch of light, gradually carving the entire desert out of darkness. First to appear were the outlines of the sand dunes, then the cracked white surface of the saline-alkali land, and finally, the coastal highway winding from the east, like a dried-out snake lying on the grayish-yellow sand.

The bend in Agailah's path is right on the snake's vital spot.

The road comes from the east and suddenly narrows between two sand dunes, shrinking from a width wide enough for two trucks to pass side by side to a narrow gap that can only accommodate one vehicle. The dunes are not high; the one to the north is about fifteen meters high, and the one to the south is a little shorter, just over ten meters. But both are very steep, as if cut by a knife, and their surfaces are covered with a layer of sand crust hardened by wind erosion. You won't sink into it when you step on it, but it's as slippery as if it's been oiled.

After passing this narrow bend, the highway makes a nearly ninety-degree turn, changing direction to north-south and heading west along the coastline. To the north, on the outer side of the bend, lies the Mediterranean Sea. The water gleams a leaden gray in the morning light, the waves small and lazily lapping the beach with a soft, sigh-like sound. To the south, on the inner side of the bend, stretches a vast expanse of salt flats. White and cracked, they extend to the horizon. The edges of the salt crusts have sharp ridges, capable of slicing through truck tires. Further south, beyond the salt flats, lie endless sand dunes, resembling a frozen yellow ocean.

Loran lay atop the higher sand dune to the north, his binoculars positioned in front of him, the empty road visible through the lenses.

He has been lying here for four hours.

Starting at 11 p.m. last night, he and Campbell led the advance team, 21 Matilda tanks, and a battalion of Australian infantry, from Wadi Rum, taking the southern route, detouring more than 100 kilometers, and arriving in Agairah at 2 a.m.

Forty minutes slower than he expected. Not because the tanks couldn't move, but because the road was too difficult. There were no roads on the southern route, only a dry riverbed and scree slopes. Matilda's tracks slipped on the gravel, and twice it got stuck in sand pits, taking the soldiers half an hour to push it out.

But they arrived. Faster than Rommel.

Lorraine glanced at his watch. 4:07. Dawn was approaching. The highway was still empty. No tanks, no trucks, no infantry. Only sand, stones, and a few clumps of camel thorns bent askew by the wind.

Campbell lay beside him, also looking at the road.

"Will he come?" Campbell asked.

"Yes," Loran said. "He has to come. Agaira is the only exit on this road. Beyond Agaira lies the plain, flat as a pancake, where he can run wherever he wants. If he can't get past Agaira, he'll be stuck here, waiting for the oil to run out."

Campbell nodded. He didn't ask any more questions.

Loran continued to stare through the telescope.

Through the lenses, the darkness at the end of the road began to fade. Not the fading of dawn, but something moving in the darkness, stirring the air and refracting the light. He squinted, adjusting his focus. Something was flashing in the darkness, very faint, like metal reflecting starlight. Then came a sound. Low, deep, like muffled thunder on the horizon. Not an explosion, but engines. Many engines, running simultaneously, their sounds mingling, coming from a great distance.

"They're here," said Loran.

Campbell raised his binoculars.

At the end of the highway, in the darkness, the first point of light appeared. Then a second, a third, and a fourth. The points of light connected to form a line, winding and twisting like a stretched-out firefly. The points of light grew closer and larger, gradually revealing their outlines. They weren't tanks, but trucks. Many trucks. Lined up in two columns, driving westward along the highway. The truck headlights were on, appearing dim in the dawn light, like candles about to go out.

Loran counted the points of light. One, ten, twenty. And they kept increasing, still emerging from the darkness.

"Rommel's vanguard," he said. "Trucks. Troop carriers. Tanks behind."

Campbell lowered his binoculars and looked at Loran. "To fight or not to fight?"

Loran didn't answer. He continued counting the dots of light. Thirty, forty, fifty. And more. The road wasn't wide enough; two lines of trucks couldn't fit them all, and some had driven onto the shoulder, their tires screeching over the gravel.

"Wait," Loran said. "Wait for the tanks. The trucks are useless; they won't help. Rommel doesn't care about losing a few soldiers. He cares about the tanks. Without tanks, he's like a cripple. Without legs, he can only wait to die."

Campbell didn't ask any more questions. He ducked back behind the dune and whispered something to the communications soldier beside him. The soldier nodded and climbed down the dune with the radio in his arms.

Loran continued to stare through the telescope.

The dots of light grew denser, forming a band that illuminated the highway like a flowing river. The truck outlines became clearer; he saw the canvas tarpaulins, the machine guns mounted on the roofs, and the blurry figures in the cabs. Some trucks had their tarpaulins open, revealing huddled groups of soldiers inside. These soldiers wore greyish-yellow desert uniforms and helmets, rifles tucked between their legs. Some were dozing, some were smoking, and some were looking out at the increasingly bright sand dunes on either side of the highway.

At 4:23, the first tank appeared.

It emerged from the darkness, its headlights dimly lit, illuminating only a few meters ahead. The gray paint scheme appeared bluish in the dawn light, and the white Iron Cross painted on the turret was particularly glaring in the dim glow. A Panzer III, with five pairs of road wheels, a long gun barrel, and a narrow hull, it resembled a crouching beetle. Loran recognized the model. A Panzer III Ausf. J, with a 50mm gun and 50mm frontal armor. His Matilda could penetrate it from 500 meters away.

The second one followed. Then came the third, and the fourth. The tanks were slower than the trucks, and the truck convoy was stretched out, with some trucks having to stop and wait, their exhaust pipes spewing white smoke that was quickly dispersed in the morning breeze.

Loran counted the tanks. Five, ten, fifteen. And more were being added. He put down his binoculars and turned to look at Campbell.

"The tanks have arrived. Fifteen, and more are being added. Panzer III Ausf. J, 50mm guns. They can penetrate your Matilda."

Campbell nodded. "When will we fight?"

Lorraine glanced at his watch. 4:27. It was already light; every rock and clump of camel thorn on the dunes was clearly visible. The convoy on the highway was also fully exposed, trucks lined up in a long column stretching from east to the horizon. Tanks were sandwiched between the trucks, one after another, like stuck blocks of iron, slowly inching forward within the convoy.

"Wait," Loran said. "Wait until they get into the bend. If we attack now, they can still retreat. Once they're in the bend, they can't retreat."

He pointed to the narrow gap. Once the 5th Armored Division's convoy entered the bend, it would face a barrage of fire and encirclement by Allied forces behind it.

"Once the first tank gets into the narrow gap, we'll bomb the sand dunes to the north. The sand will collapse and block the road. The ones in front won't be able to get out, and the ones behind won't be able to get in. They'll be stuck there, like sardines in a can. Then we'll fire."

Campbell retreated behind the dune and said a few more words to the communications soldier.

Loran continued to stare through the telescope.

The first tank was almost at the narrow gap. It was moving very slowly, as if hesitating, or as if waiting for the tanks behind to catch up.

The turret was rotating, the gun barrel pointing north towards the sand dunes, towards the direction where Loran lay prone. Loran didn't move. He knew the men inside the tank couldn't see him. They could only see the sand dunes, the rocks, and the camel thorn bushes swaying in the wind. But he still held his breath, as if afraid his breathing would travel hundreds of meters and be heard by the Germans.

The tank continued forward. The tracks rolled over the road, making a soft, metallic scraping sound, but it was exceptionally clear in the morning stillness. Loran heard the sound, growing closer and louder, as if something was slowly approaching his heart.

At 4:29, the first tank entered the narrow gap.

It drove very carefully, slowing to walking pace, the turret still rotating, the gun barrel pointing towards the sand dunes to the north. The driver leaned out and glanced up. Loran saw his face; he was young, probably not even twenty, his face covered in sand and dust, with deep dark circles under his eyes. He looked for a few seconds, then looked back and continued driving.

The second tank followed. Then the third, and the fourth. Tanks squeezed into the narrow gap one after another, like beads strung together. The truck convoy stretched even longer, with some trucks simply stopping on the side of the road, waiting for the tanks to pass first.

At 4:31, the fifth tank entered the narrow gap. The sixth tank was waiting at the entrance. The seventh tank was still behind, fifty meters away from the entrance.

"fry."

Campbell growled at the communications officer, who quickly pressed the detonator.

The explosions originated from the base of the sand dunes to the north. A series of six explosive charges, each weighing fifty kilograms, were buried every ten meters along the north side of the narrow crevice, from east to west. The charges were planted overnight by engineers from the Moshead unit, transported from Wadi Rum by truck, a journey that took the entire night. Loran watched them bury the charges, watched them stuff the explosives into the cracks at the base of the dunes, connect the detonators, and cover them with sand.

Moshead asked him if it was enough, and he said no, add more. Moshead buried all the remaining explosives, a full three hundred kilograms.

The explosion shook the dunes. Loran lay prone, feeling his body jolted up by the sound and then thrown back down. Sand rained down on him, hitting his helmet with a sharp crack. He looked up and saw a fissure had opened at the base of the dune to the north, sand gushing out like water onto the road. It wasn't a collapse, it was a flow. Three hundred kilograms of explosives had shattered the sand crust at the base of the dune, leaving the sand above without support, causing it to slide down. At first, it was slow, hesitant, then it accelerated, like Gaara's sandfall, carrying rocks and dust into the narrow road.

The road was buried by sand. The narrow gap that could only allow one car to pass at a time was now so narrow that even a motorcycle couldn't get through. The sand piled up to two meters high and was still piling up; the dunes were collapsing and sliding down.

The first tank was stuck in a narrow gap. It tried to reverse, but the tank behind it blocked its way. The second tank crashed into the first, the third into the second, and the fourth into the third.

The dull thud echoed in the narrow crevice, sharp and piercing, like something screaming.

The driver was shouting, the commander was shouting, everyone was shouting. Those shouts were swallowed up by the aftershocks of the explosion; Loran could only see their mouths moving before they were buried under the sand.

"Attack!" Loran reacted from the scene.

The machine gun beside him fired first. Campbell knelt on the ground, maneuvering a Vickers heavy machine gun mounted atop the dune, its muzzle pointed at the tanks huddled together in the narrow gap. Bullets struck the tank armor, clattering and bouncing off.

But that wasn't the machine gun's job. The machine gun's job was to suppress the infantry jumping out of the trucks.

Then came the tanks. Twenty-one Matilda tanks from Lorraine emerged from behind the dunes, forming a skirmish line, their guns pointed at the German tanks trapped in the narrow gaps. They moved slowly, less than ten kilometers per hour, their tracks rumbling over the sand. Their hulls gleamed a dark green in the morning light, and the white British insignia painted on their turrets faced off against the German Iron Crosses from several hundred meters away.

The first Matilda fired. A two-pounder, forty-millimeter cannon, the shell whistling as it left the barrel, like a tear in the air. The shell struck the side of the third German tank, penetrating the armor and blasting a fist-sized hole. A plume of white smoke rose from the tank, followed by black smoke, then flames. The fire leaped from the hatches, charring and blackening the Iron Cross on the turret. German soldiers inside, engulfed in flames, scrambled out, rolling on the sand. Those who couldn't escape were burned to death inside.

The second Matilda fired. Then the third, the fourth. Shells rained down on the blocked German tanks, one after another exploding and burning. The narrow gap became a river of fire, the flames turning the sand dunes red.

Loran lay on the top of the dune, looking at the river of fire.

Rommel did not call up the reserves.

Loran saw the trucks on the east side of the highway begin to reverse, one after another, forming a long line, heading in the opposite direction. The tanks followed suit, Panzer III Js, Panzer IV Fs, one after another, backing up from outside the narrow gap. They reversed slowly and carefully, as if afraid of stepping on something. But they didn't step on anything. They simply reversed, out of machine gun range, out of tank gun range, to a place where Loran couldn't hit them.

Then they stopped.

Loran lowered his binoculars. His hands were trembling. He suspected Rommel had other ulterior motives; the renowned general was putting too much pressure on him.

Rommel decided against fighting. He didn't intend to engage the British in a direct confrontation at Agaira. He sent the 5th Light Panzer Division to Agaira not to hold the bend, but to scout ahead. He wanted to see how many British men, tanks, and artillery were there to make a decision.

Now he saw it. Twenty-one tanks, an infantry battalion, and a machine gun emplacement. He knew the British were here.

If Agailah couldn't get through, he stopped fighting. He withdrew his troops south, across the desert, along the roadless path, in order to preserve his strength.

Desert. South. Salt flats. Beyond the salt flats lie sand dunes. The dunes stretch endlessly, reaching as far as the eye can see. No roads, no water, no people. Tanks can't go, trucks can't go. But Rommel had no other way. He had to take that road, because Agaira was impassable.

Unless a brilliant countermeasure is devised, Rommel is doomed.

"Campbell." Lorraine turned to look at the man.

Campbell crawled over from beside the machine gun. "Here."

"Rommel's out of the fight. He's heading south, through the desert. Can your tanks catch him?"

Campbell hesitated for a moment. "Chase? Head south? There are no roads in the desert. Tanks can't move fast enough to catch up."

"Then we won't pursue him," said Lorraine. "We'll wait here. We'll wait for him to go south, into the desert. We'll wait for his oil to run out, for his soldiers to starve, until he himself has to admit that he's lost the battle."

Campbell remained silent for a long time.

Then he nodded.

May 20, 1941, 9:00 AM. Thirty kilometers east of Agailah, the provisional headquarters of the German Afrika Korps.

Rommel stood beside the command vehicle, binoculars in hand, looking west. There lay his twelve tanks, three hundred infantrymen, and a bend in the road blocked by the British. His finger circled the focusing ring of the binoculars again and again, as if trying to discern something from the smoke-shrouded dunes.

Von Waldenfels stood beside him, clutching a recently received battle damage report. His hands were trembling, not from the cold, but from the numbers on them.

"General, the 5th Light Armored Division reports. In the direction of Agaira, two Panzer IV tanks and four Panzer III tanks have been lost. Infantry casualties are 120. The remaining troops have withdrawn to a safe area and are awaiting further instructions."

Rommel didn't move. He was still looking west. Behind those smoke-shrouded dunes were British tanks, British artillery, and British soldiers. And that Frenchman. The one who had fought his way from Stoney, who had terrified the Italians in Libya, who had starved three thousand defenders in Dakar, and who had deceived him for a whole month in Tobruk.

"General?" von Waldenfels called softly.

Rommel lowered his binoculars. He turned to look at von Waldenfels. His face was expressionless, except for his strikingly bright grey-blue eyes.

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

Von Waldenfels opened the map. "The main force has withdrawn to a point twenty kilometers east of Agaira. The vanguard of the 15th Panzer Division is on its way and is expected to arrive in two hours."

"Tell them not to come," Rommel said.

Von Waldenfels was stunned. "General?"

"Send them south." Rommel traced a line on the map. "Thirty kilometers south of Agaira, go around. Through the desert, through the salt flats, through places the British wouldn't go. After Agaira, turn north and get back onto the coastal road. Then head west, towards Tripoli."

Von Waldenfels stared at the map, his face pale. "General, to the south is desert. No roads, no water, no supplies. The tanks can't go that far."

"We can go," Rommel said. "The Panzer III has a range of 150 kilometers, and the Panzer IV has 120 kilometers. From Argyra to around the bend, the straight-line distance is less than 100 kilometers. If we drive sparingly, it'll be enough."

Von Waldenfels did not answer.

Rommel continued, "If the trucks can't move, they stay behind. Load all the food, ammunition, and medicine onto the tanks. People don't ride in the trucks anymore; they walk. They follow the tanks, and if they can't move anymore, they stay behind."

Von Waldenfels looked up. "Stay? What about those who stay?"

Rommel looked at him. "They can't move, so we can't take them with us. If we can't take them, we'll have to leave them behind."

Von Waldenfels didn't speak. He stood there, clutching the damage report, his knuckles white.

Rommel turned and continued looking west. Behind the smoke-shrouded dunes, the British tanks were still there. He could hear their engines, faint and distant, like a pack of wild beasts dozing in the distance. He suddenly remembered something: what was the Frenchman doing at that moment? Was he atop the dune, peering through binoculars, watching his troops retreat? Or was he in the command vehicle, calculating his next move on a map? Did he suspect that Rommel would head south, down that roadless path?

He will definitely think of that.

Rommel tapped his fingers on his knee. That Frenchman would have thought of it. What he thought of, that Frenchman would have thought of too. He went south, and that Frenchman would chase him south. His tanks were out of fuel, but that Frenchman's tanks still had fuel. His soldiers couldn't move, but that Frenchman's soldiers could still run. He would catch up, in the desert, in places where there were no roads, in places even camels wouldn't go, catch up, intercept him, and beat him.

Rommel turned around.

"Von Waldenfels".

"exist."

"Send a telegram to the 5th Light Armored Division. Tell them not to go south."

Von Waldenfels paused, taken aback. "General?"

"If he goes south, he'll be caught. That Frenchman will definitely chase him south. If he catches up, we won't be able to escape. So he can't go south."

Rommel's finger moved across the map, starting from Agaira, heading west along the coastal highway, passing Lower Rega, Sirte, Misrata, and all the way to Tripoli.

"Take the highway," he said.

Von Waldenfels was stunned. "General, the road is blocked by the British. Agaira can't get through."

"We have to get through, even if we can't," Rommel said. "The 5th Light Panzer Division, the 15th Panzer Division, all the tanks, all the artillery, all the men, gather together and charge towards Agairah. If we get through, we win. If we don't, we die there."

Von Waldenfels stared at the map, unable to utter a single word.

Rommel stood there, looking at the blocked road to the west. His fingers gripped the edge of the map so tightly that the paper was crumpled. His lips were pressed into a line, his brow furrowed, like someone who had finally seen the last move on the chessboard.

"Pass on my orders," he said. "The 5th Light Panzer Division, the 15th Panzer Division, the Ariete Division, and all other mobile units, concentrate east of Agaira. Tanks in front, infantry behind, artillery last. Frontal assault, no reserves. If you break through, you win. If you don't, you die."