Detour

Chapter 70 Detour

Loran lay on the top of the dune, the view through his binoculars sending chills down his spine.

To the east of the highway, on the horizon, dust was rising. The dust surged in from the east, blanketing the sky like a gray wall, obscuring half the heavens. Beneath the dust were tanks. Many tanks. Formed in a wedge formation, three in front, five in the middle, and seven at the rear, one after another, emerging from the dust. Panzer III J, Panzer IV F, and some older models, the Panzer IV A, which Loran had seen before. They were moving slowly, less than fifteen kilometers per hour, but their chassis were very stable.

Loran began counting. Ten, twenty, thirty. And the number kept increasing. Forty, fifty. Rommel had gathered all the tanks together. This wasn't a test; it was a decisive battle. He wanted to crush Agella's defenses, then use the remaining fuel to rush to Lower Rega harbor, to the oil tankers still adrift at sea. If he made it, he would live. If he failed, he would die.

Campbell lay beside him, also counting. His face was paler than Lorraine's, his lips were pressed into a thin line, and the veins on his forehead were throbbing.

"Fifty-four," Campbell said. "Twice as many as we have."

Loran didn't speak. He lowered his binoculars and looked at the tanks behind him. Twenty-one Matilda tanks, lined up in a skirmish line, their guns pointed east. Their armor was thicker than the German tanks, their guns shorter, and their speed slower.

They can hold out in a defensive posture. They can't catch up in an offensive one. Loran doesn't need them to attack, only to hold. Hold that narrow crevice that was bombed, hold that road buried in sand, hold Agella. If Rommel charges, they fight. If Rommel can't break through, they win.

"What about Moshead?" Lorraine asked.

Campbell pointed south. "The edge of the salt flats. His men are there, they've laid mines and set up machine guns. If Rommel goes south, he'll shoot."

"Where's Putrick?"

Campbell pointed north. "The beach. His men have anti-tank guns on the beach. If Rommel goes north, they'll fire."

Loran nodded. He turned and looked at the approaching cloud of dust to the east. Fifty-four tanks, two hundred trucks, three thousand infantry. Rommel had staked everything on this.

Once these tanks are inside, they can coordinate from the inside and outside to allow people outside to come in.

If they can't get in, they'll face the threat of running out of fuel.

"Campbell," Lorraine asked.

"exist."

Are your men afraid?

Campbell paused for a moment. He looked at Lorraine, his lips twitching as if he wanted to say something, but then swallowed his words.

"We can fight," he said.

Loran nodded. He lay back down on the top of the dune and set up the binoculars.

Through the lens, the first German tank had already entered firing range. It was a Panzer IV Ausf. F, a new model with thick frontal armor and a long gun barrel. It was leading the way, like a lead ram, followed by two Panzer III Ausf. J tanks, arranged in a triangular formation, slowly making their way towards the narrow gap.

Lorraine glanced at her watch. 8:41.

"Wait," he said. "Wait until they come within range. Five hundred meters. Matilda's two-pounder cannon can penetrate the front of the No. 3 at five hundred meters, but not the No. 4. Once the No. 3 is taken out, the No. 4 will be all alone, and we can shoot it however we want."

Campbell repeated the order to the communications officer.

Loran continued staring through the binoculars. In the lens, the Panzer IV Ausf. F had already driven past the narrow gap. It stopped, its turret spun, the gun barrel pointing north towards the sand dunes, towards the direction Loran was lying prone. Loran dared not move. He knew the people inside the tank couldn't see him. They could only see the sand dunes, the rocks, and the blasted road. But he still held his breath, as if afraid his heartbeat would travel those 500 meters and be heard by the Germans.

The Type 4F stopped for about ten seconds. Then it moved. Not forward, but backward. It was reversing, slowly, cautiously, like a wild beast testing a trap. It reversed about fifty meters, then stopped, the turret continuing to rotate, the gun barrel pointing south towards the saline-alkali land.

Lorraine understood. Rommel wasn't going to go through the narrow gap. He knew it was blocked; he was going to go somewhere else.

Lorraine's telescope suddenly turned south.

Salt flats. White, cracked, stretching to the horizon. The edges of the salt crust have sharp ridges, sharp enough to cut a truck tire. Further south, beyond the salt flats, lie sand dunes. Endless, like a frozen yellow ocean.

Tanks cannot cross saline-alkali terrain; their wheels will sink in, their tracks will slip, and their chassis will be damaged by the salt crust.

But Rommel had no other choice; he had to go through there.

Loran watched the tanks begin to move. Not west, but south. The first Panzer IV Ausf. F veered off the road and into the salt flats. Its tracks creaked and groaned as they ground against the white salt crust, like something being slowly torn apart. The salt crust shattered, shards flying and striking the tank with a clanging sound. The tank moved slowly, less than five kilometers per hour, as if stuck in an unseen swamp. But it kept moving, arching forward like a bison struggling in a marsh.

"Campbell," Loran called out.

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

"Rommel went south..."

Campbell's expression changed. "Saline-alkali land? Can a tank even cross saline-alkali land?"

"We can manage," Lorraine said. "Slow, but manageable."

He paused.

"So we can't let him cross the saline land. We have to intercept him there."

Campbell stared at him. "Saline ground? Can our tanks even go down there?"

“They can’t go down,” Loran said. “Matilda is too heavy; she’ll sink. But the infantry can. Send the men from Moshead down; I’ll send word to him.”

Campbell did as instructed, and Moshead himself arrived.

Give me an hour.

Lorraine glanced at her watch. 8:53.

"One hour," he said. "In one hour, Campbell will attack from the north. In that hour, you must stop Rommel and prevent him from crossing the salt flats."

Moshead nodded. He turned around and called out to the soldiers who had returned with him, "Second Battalion, assemble!"

The soldiers stood up. A battalion of over three hundred men emerged from behind Shakan, forming skirmish lines, and followed Moshead south.

Moshead walked at the very front. His back was very straight, and his head was held high.

Loran watched their figures disappear into the white mist of the salt flats. Then he turned and ran back to the top of the dune.

Campbell was still there, lying next to the machine gun, watching the German tanks slowly moving through the salt flats.

"Moshead is gone," Campbell said.

"He's gone," Lorraine said. "He's going to intercept Rommel's tanks in the riverbed. You'll attack from the north in an hour."

Campbell nodded.

Loran lay back down on the top of the dune and set up his binoculars. Through the lenses, the German tanks were still slowly moving across the salt flats. They had gone quite a distance, about two kilometers from the road.

Loran looked at the tanks, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

At 9:23, the men from Moshead reached the riverbed.

Loran spotted them through his binoculars. More than three hundred men, lined up in a skirmish line, lay prone on the edge of the riverbed. The riverbed wasn't wide, about fifty meters, and its bottom was hard, bleached white by the sun. The German tanks had to cross this riverbed to get from the saline-alkali land to the sand dunes. Because the riverbed was hard, their tracks wouldn't get stuck. Beyond the riverbed lay the sand dunes.

The men of Moshead lay prone on the edge of the riverbed, their guns pointed towards the salt flats. They were motionless, like a row of stones growing out of the riverbed. Loran couldn't see their faces, but he could see the gun barrels. The barrels gleamed dimly in the morning light, like a row of fuses waiting to be lit.

At 9:31 AM, the first German tank approached the riverbed.

A Type 4F truck was leading the way. It moved slowly, probably less than three kilometers per hour. The sound of its tracks crushing the salt crust grew louder and closer, like a giant beast struggling in the mud. The driver leaned out and looked towards the riverbed. He saw the riverbed, the sand dunes beyond, and the empty road beyond the dunes. He probably thought he had won.

He floored the accelerator. The engine's sound grew shrill, like something screaming. The tank accelerated, from three kilometers per hour to five, from five to eight. The sound of the tracks crushing the salt crust became rapid, like someone banging on a broken drum. The riverbed drew closer, fifty meters, forty meters, thirty meters.

At 9:33, Moshead opened fire.

The Poisson anti-tank rifle, 13.9mm caliber, bullets thicker than a thumb. It couldn't penetrate a tank, but it could break the tracks. The first shot hit the left track of the first Panzer IV Ausf. F. The track broke, like a severed snake, sliding off the drive sprocket and collapsing to the ground. The tank lurched violently, as if it had been pushed from the side.

The second shot hit the right track of the second Panzer III Ausf. J. The track broke, the tank tilted, and it came to a stop.

The third shot, the fourth shot, the fifth shot. One shot, one tank; one shot, one track. The sound of those anti-tank rifles was deafening, like someone firing cannons right next to your ear. Loran, lying on top of the dune, could hear them from a kilometer away.

The German tanks began to return fire. They weren't firing at the riverbed, but at the saline-alkali soil. They didn't know where the men of Moshead were; they only knew the bullets were coming from the direction of the riverbed. Shells landed on the riverbank, exploding into clouds of mud and sand that swallowed the figures lying prone there.

Loran watched the tanks stop one after another. The first stopped, the second stopped, the third stopped. The others kept moving forward, but the road ahead was blocked, and they couldn't get through. Some tanks tried to go around, heading north, towards Campbell. Some tried to go south, deeper into the salt flats. But the salt flats became increasingly difficult to traverse, increasingly soft, and their tracks would sink in and become stuck.

There were just too many tanks. Shells rained down, and shrapnel from the explosions hit the soldiers, causing them to fall to the ground one after another.

Moshead swallowed hard. He had run out of bullets and watched as so many tanks passed by him, and there was nothing he could do.

He had expected this battle to be an unprecedented victory, but the result was no different from any other. The German tanks were too powerful, their soldiers were too skilled, and they never had a chance to fight back.

Moshead lay on the ground, his ears filled with the sound of gunfire.

The Boyce rifle was out of ammunition. The loader beside him lay on the ground, a shrapnel tear in his chest, blood gushing out and staining the white salt crust a dark red. Moshead reached out to touch his neck; there was no pulse. He touched the face again; it was still warm.

He closed his eyes, then opened them again.

In the saline-alkali soil, the German tanks continued to push forward. The first Panzer IV Ausf. F, its tracks broken, lay paralyzed on the edge of the riverbed, like a dead iron ox. But the second one went around it, circling from the north, crushing the shattered salt crust. Its tracks slipped, and the tank wobbled, but it still kept moving forward. The third followed suit, then the fourth, and the fifth. They formed a crooked column, like a herd of water buffalo trudging through a swamp.

Moshead turned his head and looked to his right. The men of the 1st Company of the 2nd Battalion were still there, lying prone on the edge of the riverbed, their rifles pointed at the salt flats. But fewer men were left. There had been more than a hundred a moment ago, now only sixty or so remained. Some of those who were missing were dead, some were wounded, and some had been blown away, their shadows nowhere to be found.

He saw a corporal lying less than a kilometer away, loading a bullet into his rifle. The corporal's hands were trembling, and he couldn't get the bullet into the magazine after three attempts. Moshead wanted to call out to him to calm him down, but his mouth opened and no sound came out. His throat felt like it was stuffed with sand, dry and rough, making it hard to breathe evenly.

He swallowed hard, tasting blood. Not his own blood, but the blood in the air. The saline-alkali land was filled with the smell of rust and gunpowder, a fishy, ​​spicy, and pungent odor that stung his eyes.

Moshead pushed the Boyce rifle aside. The barrel was frighteningly hot, sending a plume of white smoke rising from the salt crust. He drew his revolver from his waist and checked the cylinder. Six rounds, fully loaded. He held the revolver in his hand, finding it unbelievably light, like a toy.

He glanced north. Campbell's men hadn't moved. He could see the figures crouching on the dune tops, blurry, small, like a row of bushes growing out of the dunes. They were still waiting. Waiting for his command. Waiting for him to say "That's enough," waiting for him to say "I can't hold on any longer," waiting for him to say "Come quickly."

Moshead withdrew his gaze.

He couldn't call Campbell. Not yet. Only a third of the German tanks had arrived; the rest were still struggling in the saline-alkali soil. If Campbell attacked from the north now, those tanks would turn south, into the deeper saline-alkali soil, into places even camels couldn't cross, then circle back behind some dunes, back onto the road, and head west again, to the port of Lower Rega, to the oil tankers still adrift at sea.

No. We can't let them pass.

Moshead got up from the ground. He crouched and moved forward, crouching low, inching along. Bullets flew overhead, some so close he could hear the sound of them tearing through the air. He didn't dodge or lie down, just crouched and moved forward like a hare darting through the grass.

He walked over to the platoon leader's position. The platoon leader was lying in a shell crater, his face covered in blood, it was hard to tell if it was his own or someone else's.

"Old Mo," the company commander called out to him.

"How many people are left?" Moshead asked.

The company commander shook his head. "Less than half. The second company is about the same. The third company—we've lost contact with the third company."

Moshead didn't speak. He looked at the tanks in the salt flats and counted them. Seventeen. Seventeen German tanks had crossed the riverbed and were heading west towards the sand dunes. They were moving slowly, probably less than five kilometers per hour, but they were moving forward. Every meter forward.

"What about anti-tank mines?" Moshead asked.

"They've buried them," the company commander said. "Two rows were buried in the middle of the riverbed. But the tanks didn't go through the riverbed; they went around it through the saline-alkali soil."

Moshead nodded. He looked down at his hands, which were trembling. Not from fear, but from exhaustion. He hadn't slept for two days. Two days. Forty-eight hours. His eyes were as dry as two roasted grapes, painful to blink.

"Old Mo," the company commander said, "we can't hold out much longer."

"I know," Moshead said.

He stood up. A bullet whizzed past his ear, sending up a gust of hot air. He ignored it. He walked toward the salt flats, step by step, steadily and straight, as if marching in formation on a parade ground.

"Old Mo!" the company commander called from behind.

Moshead did not turn back.

He walked to the edge of the riverbed and stood on the earthen embankment that had been blasted away by artillery fire. The saline ground stretched out beneath his feet, white, cracked, and endless. Seventeen German tanks were lined up in a crooked column before him, slowly creeping westward. The closest one, less than two hundred meters away, was a Panzer III J, its gun barrel still adorned with a few crushed strands of salt grass.

The tank's turret was rotating. The gun barrel was pointing at him.

Moshead raised his revolver and aimed it at the tank.

Six bullets. .38 caliber. They hit the tank's frontal armor, leaving not even a mark. But he still held that gun, as if it were a sword capable of cleaving mountains.

He pulled the trigger.

Bang. The first shot. The bullet struck the tank's cannon barrel, ricocheted, and made a sharp sound, like someone tapping on a railroad track.

Bang. The second shot. It hit the side of the turret, bounced off, and didn't even scratch the paint.

Bang. The third shot. It hit the front of the vehicle, bounced off, and left a shallow scratch.

The tank's turret stopped. The cannon barrel was aimed at him. The dark muzzle looked like an eye opening.

Moshead looked into that eye, and the corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile; it was an expression he couldn't quite define. Like relief, like weariness, like someone who had traveled too far finally seeing the end.

He remembered things. He remembered the London winter, the fog on the Thames, and the morning he left home, when his wife stood at the door without crying, just looking into his eyes and saying something. It took him a long time to remember what those words were.

"Come back."

Moshead fired the fourth shot.

As the shell flew over his head, he heard a sound. It wasn't an explosion, nor a whistling sound, but a very soft, delicate sound, like someone plucking a string from afar. The sound lingered in his ear for a second, then disappeared.

Moshead looked down at his body. There was a hole in his chest. Not big, about the size of his fist. The edges were charred and smoking. He reached out to touch the hole, feeling his ribs, his lungs. His hand trembled, not from exhaustion, but from cold. Very cold. As if someone had stuffed a whole block of ice into his chest cavity.

He knelt down. His knees struck the salt crust with a dull thud. The revolver slipped from his hand, fell to the ground, and sparked a small fire.

He glanced westward. The sun had just risen above the horizon, a deep red, like a flag stained with blood. The flag hung motionless in the sky, as if waiting for him.

Moshead fell down.

He lay on the salt flats, on the white, cracked salt crust riddled with holes from artillery fire. His face was turned upwards, his eyes open, his lips slightly parted, as if he were saying something.

The wind blew from the east, carrying the smell of gunpowder and sand. The wind blew over his body, ruffled his clothes, and tousled his hair. Then the wind continued to blow westward, past the tanks that were still moving forward, past the soldiers lying prone on the dunes, past the road buried in sand, all the way to the horizon.

German tanks continued to advance through the saline-alkali soil.

At the top of the dune, Loran lowered his binoculars.

His hands were trembling. Not from fear, but because he had just seen a man standing on the edge of the riverbed, firing a revolver at a tank. The man stood straight, walked quickly, and died quietly.

"Moshead has been killed," Lorraine said.

"Yes." Campbell nodded.