Looting

Chapter 71 Looting

Rommel looked at the telegram in his hand and breathed a slight sigh of relief.

According to reports from the front lines, the armored forces have successfully crossed the saline-alkali land and arrived at the city of Agira. The next step is for the entire army to advance deeper into the region and rest and recuperate.

Without the concern of tanks, he could confidently charge in. He was certain that Roland was not a fool to confront him head-on outside the city with an army of 20,000.

Von Waldenfels stood beside him, a look of delight on his face.

"General, the vanguard has successfully withdrawn into the city of Agira and is currently holding back the main enemy force. The majority of our troops are expected to arrive within half a day."

Rommel nodded thoughtfully.

"How much rations do the soldiers have left?"

Waldenfels paused briefly, but quickly realized the problem. Running out of food was just as important as running out of fuel, and their food supplies were dwindling.

"It is estimated that each soldier's individual rations will not last more than two days, and if they are careful, they can last for three days."

11

Rommel remained silent for a moment.

"The soldiers' morale is low, their physical strength is greatly depleted, and without timely replenishment, their combat effectiveness cannot be fully guaranteed."

The two fell silent.

Rommel arrived at the edge of the salt flats half a day later. Looking at the devastated battlefield, he felt a pang of guilt. Tanks in this area constantly risked sinking into the ground; once trapped, they would face a fierce enemy attack and certain death. Yet his soldiers still obeyed without hesitation.

As he had expected, Loran's troops withdrew well before his arrival and surrounded the city of Agira from a distance.

This gave him a feeling of being in another world. Just a short while ago, he was besieging Tobruk and enjoying the thrill of bombardment, but he never expected to be trapped in Agailah so soon.

Rommel's eyes froze, and his fists clenched involuntarily.

"Armed troops enter the city, each find a place to rest, and be ready to go into combat mode immediately if any situation arises." However, he knew very well that it would be a long time before they clashed head-on.

Charging out is easy, but what about fuel? What about the tanks?

Without tanks, what difference is there between them and lambs to the slaughter?

Agella.

This small town on the edge of the desert is like a corpse forgotten by time.

Rommel stood in the courtyard of the city's central mosque, his feet on cracked stone slabs, withered weeds growing in the cracks. He looked up at the broken minaret, the exposed steel bars trembling slightly in the wind, emitting a faint, groaning sound. The setting sun shone from the west, dyeing the entire city a dark red, as if it were soaking in blood.

He has been in the city for two hours.

The vanguard took control of the situation sooner than he had anticipated. When the tanks of the 5th Light Armored Division rolled in through the east gate, there was virtually no resistance from the city. A few local militants fired a few shots at the tanks, only to be driven back by machine gun fire and disappear. Residents hid in their homes, peeking through their door cracks as the gray steel behemoths rolled through their narrow streets, scraping layers of dust off their adobe walls.

Von Waldenfels walked in from outside the courtyard, his boots crunching on the gravel. He clutched a newly compiled report in his hand, a strange expression on his face that was hard to tell whether it was relief or worry.

"General," he said, "the troops have all entered the city. The 5th Light Armored Division is deployed in the east, the 15th Armored Division in the west, and the Ariete Division in the south. The north is the slums, where we haven't deployed troops, only a few checkpoints."

Rommel nodded. He looked around at the small town he had acquired after three days of hard work and at a great cost.

Agailah is small. It takes less than half an hour to walk from the east gate to the west gate. From south to north, it's even shorter, a round trip in twenty minutes. The entire town is built along a dry riverbed, sloping from north to south, with houses crammed together in layers, like piles of garbage blown by the wind. The streets are so narrow that only two people can walk side by side, and in some places, not even sunlight can penetrate, shrouded in shadow year-round. Most of the houses on both sides are made of adobe, with peeling plaster revealing the mud bricks underneath; some are cracked and propped up with wooden sticks, as if they might collapse at any moment.

The city center was this open space, half of which was occupied by the mosque. The mosque wasn't large; the courtyard could park a dozen cars, and the prayer hall could squeeze in two hundred people. The walls were made of stone, sturdier than the mud-brick houses, and hadn't suffered much damage from the artillery fire; only the doors and windows were broken, and the carpets on the floor were torn to shreds. There was a well in the courtyard, the city's only water source. Rommel walked to the well and looked down. The well was deep, the water surface more than ten meters below, reflecting a small patch of sky. He smelled a faint salty odor—bitter water.

"Is the water drinkable?" he asked.

Von Waldenfels walked over and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. "The engineers tested it; it has a very high salt content, and drinking it will cause diarrhea. But it's drinkable after boiling, at least it's better than nothing."

Rommel nodded. He looked away from the well and at the soldiers bustling about in the yard. Some were setting up radios, some were carrying ammunition boxes, and some were squatting against the wall eating dry rations. Their movements were slow, as if weighed down by something. Not tired, but exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that seeped into your bones, which couldn't be relieved by a good night's sleep or a meal.

Three days. From Tobruk to Agailah, less than two hundred kilometers, they had walked for three days. Every day they were being chased and attacked by the British, every night they were being bombed by planes, and at every step someone fell. Now they had finally arrived, finally stopped, finally could stop running. But Rommel knew that the stop was only temporary.

He needed time. He needed to let the soldiers rest and wait for supplies, though he didn't think Loran would actually send them in. But time was running out. Food was only enough for two days, water for one day, and fuel just enough to move the tanks. In two days, his 60,000 men would become 60,000 mouths to feed.

"Von Waldenfels," he said.

"exist."

"Has a survey of the residential areas been conducted?"

Von Waldenfels opened his notebook. "There are about three to four hundred people living in the slums in the north of the city, mainly local fishermen and their families. There are a few shops in the south of the city, selling grain, cloth and some groceries. There is a market in the east of the city, but it is empty; the merchants all fled before the war."

"What about the food?"

Von Waldenfels hesitated for a moment. "The engineers searched several shops and found some. Flour, about two hundred kilograms. Some dates, a few jars of cooking oil. Also, a few households were raising sheep and chickens, not many."

Rommel was silent for a few seconds. Two hundred kilograms of flour, enough for a few thousand troops, wouldn't even be enough to fill a tooth gap for each person.

But this may be their only source of food for the next few days.

"Requisition," he said. "Requisition all the food, water, and medicine you can find. Leave the residents three days' worth of food, and take everything else."

Von Waldenfels paused, startled. "General, those residents—"

"I know," Rommel interrupted him, "but my soldiers need to eat too. If you feel bad about it, tell them the German army will pay. They'll get compensation when the war is over."

Von Waldenfels said nothing more. He saluted, turned, and left.

Rommel stood alone in the yard. He walked to the well, bent down, picked up a small stone, and threw it into the well. The sound of the stone hitting the water took a long time to reach the surface, muffled, like a sigh.

He turned and walked into the mosque.

The chapel was darker than the courtyard. The windows were small, and the light streaming in from outside created several dim, yellowish beams in the air.

A large section of the carpet on the floor had been lifted, revealing a stone slab underneath. The slab was engraved with Arabic patterns, which he couldn't understand. Several boxes of ammunition were piled in the corner, and a few soldiers were squatting nearby cleaning their guns. Seeing him enter, they stood up and saluted. He waved them off, indicating they should continue.

He walked to the innermost part of the chapel, where a small door led to a room at the back. The room wasn't large, probably where the imam used to live. There was a bed, a table, a chair, and a faded tapestry depicting the Kaaba in Mecca hanging on the wall. The window was high, and a small patch of sky could be seen outside; it was a dark reddish color, and the sun was about to set.

He walked to the table and spread out the map. Agella's location was circled in red on the map.

He stared at the map for a long time.

Then he heard a commotion outside. It wasn't gunfire or artillery fire, but voices. Many people were shouting, yelling, and running around. He frowned, walked out of the room, across the chapel, and into the courtyard.

The courtyard was in complete chaos.

Soldiers crowded around the well; some carried buckets, some held mess kits, and some carried nothing but craning their necks to peer inside. Some shouted, "Let me go first!" others yelled, "Line up!" and still others swore. A young captain stood on the well's edge, waving his arms, trying to maintain order, but no one listened.

Von Waldenfels pushed his way through the crowd and walked up to Rommel with a helpless expression on his face.

"General," he said, "it's water. The engineers said the well water was drinkable, so the soldiers all rushed over. They haven't had clean water for three days."

Rommel looked at the soldiers. Their faces were tanned dark, their lips chapped, their eyes sunken, and their uniforms were covered in sand and sweat. Some of their bandages were blackened, yet they were still queuing, waiting for a canteen of water. Looking at them, he felt a strange mix of emotions—pity, but also guilt.

"Make them line up," he said. "One at a time. No grabbing, no pushing. Whoever grabs, doesn't get a drink."

""

Von Waldenfels nodded, then turned and ran back into the crowd.

Rommel stood on the steps, watching the soldiers slowly quiet down and form a crooked line. The first soldier went to the well, lowered his bucket, pulled it up, filled his canteen, and stepped aside. The second followed, the third, the fourth. The line moved forward slowly, like a river about to dry up.

He turned and went back to his room.

it's getting dark.

The slums in the north of the city.

Mohammed Abdul Rahman squatted on his doorstep, watching the German soldiers walk in from the alleyway.

He was sixty-seven years old, and had lived in this city for sixty-seven years. He had seen Italians, Englishmen, Frenchmen, and now Germans. Every single one of them was the same: first they pointed a gun at your head, then they ransacked your cabinets, then they took your things. The Italians took his donkey, the Englishmen took his grain, the Frenchmen took his copper pot. Now the Germans had arrived, and he wondered what else they would take.

His wife, Fatima, hid behind the door, peeking out through the crack. Her lips trembled, her hands trembled, but she dared not speak. Their son, Hassan, had been taken by Italians to be a forced laborer last year and had never returned. Their daughter-in-law had run away with their grandson, their whereabouts unknown. Now only the two of them, the elderly couple, remained, guarding a leaky mud-brick house and a few chickens that were nearly starving.

The German soldiers walked up to their house and stopped. Leading them was a young sergeant with scars on his face and cold eyes. He glanced at the house number, then at a piece of paper in his hand, and waved to the soldiers behind him.

Two soldiers rushed into the yard and headed straight for the chicken coop. The chickens were startled and flapped their wings wildly, scattering feathers all over the ground. Fatima screamed, but Muhammad covered her mouth.

The soldiers seized three chickens and also found half a bag of flour and a can of olive oil in the house. They put the items into a sack, slung it over their shoulders, and turned to leave.

Muhammad stood up and said in a trembling voice, "That is our last ration."

The sergeant turned and looked at him. His cold eyes were expressionless. He pulled a wad of banknotes from his pocket, counted a few, stuffed them into Muhammad's hand, and then turned and left.

Muhammad looked down at the money. German marks—he'd never seen them before. He didn't know what they could buy, or who would accept them in a place like Agairah. He clutched the money in his hand for a long time, then released it, letting the wind blow it away.

Fatima squatted in the yard, looking at the empty chicken coop, and began to cry. The crying was soft and suppressed, as if squeezed from the depths of her throat, a muffled sob that carried far in the twilight.

Chengdong Market.

The market was empty. Shelves were overturned, and trampled vegetables and broken pottery jars were scattered on the floor. The wind blew in through the broken windows, stirring up dust that stung our faces.

Corporal Hans Meyer crouched behind the counter of a grocery store, rummaging through a wooden crate. Inside were some moldy flatbreads and several cans of expired sardines. He brought the flatbreads to his nose and sniffed; a sour, foul odor assaulted his nostrils. He frowned, tossed the flatbreads back into the crate, and continued rummaging.

He was a tank crewman in the 5th Light Armored Division, but his tank had run out of fuel and was parked behind a sand dune outside the city, covered with camouflage netting. He and his crew were temporarily assigned to the infantry to search for supplies inside the city. They had been searching for three hours and found a few bags of flour, some dates, a few cans of oil, and some dried-out onions. It wasn't much, but it would at least last them another day.

"Meyer," someone called him from outside.

He stood up and walked out of the grocery store. It was his commander, an old soldier named Wolf, with an old scar running from his forehead to his chin. Wolf stood across the street, holding a struggling sheep in his hand.

"Look at this." Wolf grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth.

Meyer walked over and looked at the sheep. It wasn't big, maybe twenty kilograms, with grayish fur, and so thin you could see its ribs. But it was still alive, still struggling, still bleating.

"Where did it come from?" Meyer asked.

Wolf gestured to the side. It was a house's yard; the gate had been kicked open, and an old woman was crouching on the threshold, clutching her head, her shoulders shaking. A few woolen wools and a pool of blood lay scattered at her feet.

Meyer looked at the old woman, as if something was stuck in his throat. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but nothing came out.

Wolf didn't notice his expression. He carried the sheep toward the market, muttering, "We'll have meat tonight."

Meyer stood there, watching Wolf's figure disappear into the twilight. He looked down at his hands. His hands were trembling.

He remembered three months earlier, outside Tobruk, when he and his crew first encountered that French force. It was night; he was lying on the tank turret, watching blurry figures move behind the dunes in the distance. Then gunfire erupted. His tank was hit in the side by an anti-tank shell; the tracks snapped, the tank jolted, and his head slammed into the gun barrel, everything going black. When he awoke, his crew was missing a man. The loader, Fritz, had just turned nineteen, came from Berlin, and had two dimples when he smiled. His seat was empty, covered in blood.

Meyer crouched down, leaned against the wall of the grocery store, and buried his face in his knees.

He didn't know when the battle would end. All he knew was that he was hungry, thirsty, tired, and wanted to go home.

West of the city.

The 15th Armored Division's temporary command post was located in a two-story stone house. The house had probably been the residence of a wealthy merchant, with a yard, a garden, and a terrace overlooking the sea. But now the garden was riddled with shell craters, the terrace railing was half broken, and the sea breeze, carrying a salty, fishy smell, was pouring in through the gaps.

Major General Walter Neumann, the division commander, stood on the terrace, gazing at the distant sea. It was completely dark; the sea and sky merged into one, indistinguishable from the shore. Occasionally, starlight twinkled on the water, like a distant lamp lit by someone.

"General." His chief of staff came out of the room, holding a folder in his hand. "The supplies have been tallied."

Neumann turned and took the folder. By the light from the room, he looked at the numbers line by line. Flour, 320 kilograms. Dates, 150 kilograms. Oil, 40 liters. Sheep, 12. Chickens, 30. And some other miscellaneous items, totaling less than a ton.

He closed the folder and handed it back to the chief of staff.

"How many days?" he asked.

The chief of staff hesitated for a moment. "If we eat sparingly, it'll probably take two days. But if we include the men from Ariete's division, it might take a day and a half."

Neumann fell silent. He turned and looked at the dark sea.

"Send a telegram to General Rommel," he said. "Say that the city's food reserves are limited, enough to sustain the entire army for only two days. Request that supplies be arranged as soon as possible."

The chief of staff nodded, turned and left.

Neumann stood alone on the terrace. A cool breeze blew in from the sea. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the waves lapping against the shore, one slow, rhythmic beat, like a heartbeat.

He recalled 1940, in France. He had stood on the shore in a similar way then, but not in Agaira, but in Calais. Back then, he led an armored regiment, chasing the British all the way to the sea. The British had fled from Dunkirk, and he stood on the dock, watching the ships grow smaller and smaller, thinking: the war is almost over.

A year passed. The war was not over, and he did not return home. He went to North Africa, to this desert where even camels did not want to stay, chasing the British and being chased by them. His tank went from a Panzer IV to a Panzer III, and then from a Panzer III to a captured British Matilda. His soldiers went from veterans to recruits, and then from recruits to corpses.

He opened his eyes and looked at the dark sea.

Late at night in a slum in the north of the city.

Muhammad sat on the threshold, gazing at the stars overhead. Fatima was asleep, curled up in a corner of the room, covered with a tattered blanket. Tears still clung to her face, but her breathing was steady, occasionally punctuated by soft snores.

He couldn't sleep. Not because he was hungry, but because he was afraid. He didn't know what would happen tomorrow. Would the Germans stay?

What if the British attack? How much longer can he and Fatima live? These questions swirled in his mind all day, giving him a headache.

Footsteps sounded at the alley entrance. He looked up and saw several figures emerge from the darkness. They were German soldiers, three in total, carrying rifles and bending over, as if searching for something. They walked past his house without stopping, continuing deeper into the alley.

Muhammad watched those figures disappear into the darkness.

In the distance, from the direction of the mosque, came the sound of a generator, a buzzing sound, like something breathing in the darkness.

He heard people shouting commands, singing, and laughing. The sounds mingled together, coming from the city center and drifting in the night breeze.

He looked down at his hands. They were thin, veins bulging, and nails filled with dirt. He remembered his youth, when he too would sit on the doorstep like this, gazing at the stars, waiting for dawn. Back then, he was young and strong, able to walk to the sea and back in one go. His son Hassan hadn't been born yet, and Fatima was as beautiful as a flower. Agaira wasn't a ruin then; there were markets, teahouses, and children playing football in the streets.

There was no war back then.

He looked up at the stars overhead. The stars were still as bright as ever, as if someone had lit a lamp far away.

He suddenly felt like crying.

But he didn't cry. He just sat there, looking at the stars, waiting for dawn.