Breakthrough

Chapter 72 Breakthrough

Loran crouched on the back of the dune, a hastily drawn pencil map of the area around Agella spread out in front of him. Campbell crouched opposite him, clutching a piece of intelligence that had just been delivered by a scout.

It was completely dark. There was no moon in the desert, only the stars overhead, densely packed together, like salt sprinkled on a black cloth. In the distance, the outline of the city of Agira was faintly visible in the night, with one or two lights occasionally flashing before going out again.

"They've started slaughtering livestock," Campbell said in a low voice. "The scouts heard sheep bleating from the north of the city. They bleated for half the night, then stopped in the second half."

Loran didn't answer. He stared at the crooked lines on the map—the east, west, south, and north gates of Agaira—every street, every house, he'd had his scouts double-check them. There was only one well in the city, in the courtyard of the mosque; it was a bitter well—drinking from it would cause diarrhea, but it would be enough to survive. If the city had any food, it would probably be enough to feed several thousand people for two or three days. Rommel had sixty thousand people. Sixty thousand mouths, two or three days, and then what?

"Then they'll eat the camels," Lorraine said.

Campbell paused, stunned. "What?"

"Camels. There are a few families in the slums north of the city who raise camels, about a dozen or so. Killing them will keep them alive for another day. After that, they'll eat the horses. After the horses are gone, they'll eat the dogs. After the dogs are gone, they'll eat the leather belts. After the leather belts are gone—" He didn't finish his sentence.

Campbell fell silent. He looked down at his hands. They were rough, with large knuckles and sand stuck under his fingernails. He suddenly remembered something: in Dunkirk, his troops were stranded on the beach, without water, food, or ammunition.

They waited three days, three days before the ship finally arrived. In those three days, he saw people gnawing on their own belts, drinking their own urine, burying their faces in the sand and refusing to look up again. Those were the longest three days of his life. Now, Rommel was about to experience the same three days.

"How long can he hold on?" Campbell asked.

Loran thought for a moment. Rommel was no ordinary man. He could survive in the desert, and so could his soldiers. The Germans were more disciplined than the Italians, more disciplined than the British, more disciplined than anyone else. They would line up for water, distribute food in measured portions, dig fortifications, set up sentry posts, and maintain their equipment. Even when they were too hungry to walk, they would keep their guns gleaming. They would last a long time.

"One week," Lorraine said. "One week at most. After one week, they'll have to figure out how to get out."

Campbell nodded. He looked at the red circles on the map representing German positions, then at the blue circles representing British positions. The red circles were inside the city, the blue circles were outside, one inside the other, like two gears meshing together.

"How long should we keep this up?"

Loran didn't answer. He stood up, walked to the top of the dune, and looked towards the city of Agaira through his binoculars. The city was quiet; there was no gunfire, no cannon fire, not even the barking of dogs. Only the wind, blowing from the sea, carried a salty, fishy smell, swirling around the dilapidated rooftops. He lowered his binoculars.

"Wait," he said. "Wait until they get hungry."

The next day, the supply line was cut off.

It wasn't Lorraine who sent men to cut it off; Rommel cut it off himself. Heading east from Agaira, along the coastal road back, every bridge had been blown up, every section of road dug up, every well filled in. The Italians did it; during their retreat, they destroyed all the supply depots along the way, not to stop the British, but to stop the Germans. The Italians didn't want to fight anymore. They wanted to go home. They didn't want Rommel to have a way back.

When the news reached Rommel, he was inspecting the well in the mosque courtyard. The sappers had already sludged the well, removing a considerable amount of silt and gravel; the water flow was slightly better than the day before, but the salinity was still very high. He stood by the well, watching the soldiers line up to draw water, each filling a jug exactly halfway. No one cut in line, no one complained; they simply waited quietly, as if it were a habit.

Von Waldenfels walked in from outside the courtyard, his face grim. He went to Rommel's side and whispered something to him.

Rommel's hand paused briefly on the edge of the well, just for a moment, before he continued watching the soldiers drawing water.

"I understand," he said.

Von Waldenfels didn't leave. "General, we're running low on fuel too. The fuel we had left yesterday is only enough for the tanks to move a few kilometers. If the British attack now, our tanks will be nothing but scrap metal."

Rommel turned to look at his chief of staff. There was no anger or fear in those grey-blue eyes, only a deep weariness. "The British won't attack," he said. "They don't need to attack. They just need to wait."

Von Waldenfels fell silent. He stood there, unsure of what to say.

Rommel walked back to the well, bent down, picked up a small stone, and threw it into the well. The sound of the stone hitting the water was muffled, as if something was sighing from deep within.

"Drain all the oil from the tanks," he said, "and put it on trucks and armored vehicles. The tanks are useless; they're just scrap metal."

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

"I know," Rommel interrupted him, "but what we need now is not tanks, but food. Drain the oil from the tanks, load it onto trucks, and send men east to see if they can find any supplies the Italians have abandoned. Even a few bags of flour or a few cans of food are better than nothing."

Von Waldenfels saluted, then turned and ran.

Rommel stood alone by the well. He looked down at his hands. They were thin, with prominent knuckles and short nails.

He thought of those tanks, the tanks he had spent six months transporting from Germany to North Africa, the tanks he had used to sweep across the desert, the tanks he had thought would take him to Alexandria, to Cairo, to the Suez Canal. Now they would remain in this desert, becoming piles of scrap metal buried by the sand, becoming tombstones eroded by the wind.

He closed his eyes.

On the third day, people began to starve to death in the city.

They weren't German soldiers, they were locals. The elderly and children of the slums in the north of the city—their grain had been requisitioned, their sheep taken, their chickens seized. They were left with only a few handfuls of dates and a few moldy flatbreads, things that wouldn't last long. The first to die was an infant, only a few months old; his mother had held him and sat at the alley entrance all day until the baby's body grew cold. The second to die was an old man, over seventy, lying on his doorstep, seemingly asleep, but never waking up again.

When German soldiers passed by, they would stop for a glance, then walk on. No one spoke, no one stopped. They too were hungry, thirsty, and waiting.

Corporal Meyer crouched at the alley entrance, watching the woman holding the stillborn baby. She had stopped crying; she was just sitting there, gently rocking the child in her arms, humming a song whose lyrics were indistinct. The song was soft and slow, as if it were drifting from a great distance.

Wolfe walked over and knelt down beside him, holding a dry, hard piece of bread. He broke the bread in half and offered the larger half to the woman. The woman didn't take it. She just continued rocking the child in her arms and humming the song.

Wolf placed the bread at her feet, stood up, and brushed the dirt off his knees.

"Let's go," he said.

Meyer followed him deeper into the alley. After a few steps, he turned back and saw the woman still sitting there, motionless and not looking at the pancake. She was simply holding her child, gently rocking him, humming the song whose lyrics he couldn't make out.

"She'll die," Meyer said.

Wolf did not answer. He continued walking quickly, as if he were fleeing.

On the fourth day, Rommel convened a meeting of all officers of colonel rank and above.

The meeting was held in the prayer hall of the mosque. A carpet was laid on the floor, but it had been worn down beyond recognition. The officers sat cross-legged in a circle, with a kerosene lamp in the center. The wick burned brightly, casting flickering light on everyone's faces. Jammel sat in the very center, leaning against the wall, a map spread out before him. His face was thin, with prominent cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and chapped lips that bled. But he sat very upright, his back ramrod straight, like a beam supporting the entire building.

"Gentlemen," he said, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping against stone, "you all know our situation. We only have enough food for two more days, enough water for one day, and we've run out of oil. The British are surrounding the city, waiting for us to give up. If we do nothing, we'll have to surrender in two more days."

No one spoke. The flame of the kerosene lamp flickered, casting everyone's shadows on the wall, swaying and flickering like ghosts.

Rommel continued, "But I do not intend to surrender. German soldiers do not surrender. We may die, we may be captured, we may turn to dust in this desert, but we will not surrender."

His gaze swept over every face. They were all thin, dark-skinned, and exhausted. But they were all looking at him, waiting for him to continue.

"I have a plan," he said.

His finger landed on the map, pointing to the location of the city of Agira. "The British have besieged the city, but they can't besiege the entire desert. To the north of the city is the sea, and the British have no warships, so they can't block the sea route. To the south of the city is saline land; the British tanks can't get through, but people can."

The east side of the city was a highway, which the British blew up, but there was no need for a road to walk. The west side of the city—"

His finger stopped at a point in the west of the city. "The west of the city is a desert. A real desert, with no roads, no water, and no people. If you go in, you might not come out."

He looked up at the officers.

"I want to divide the troops into small groups. Each group will have fifty men, and the group leader will carry a compass and a map. Each group will break out separately, head west, deep into the desert, then turn north and reach the coast. There are fishing villages, fishing boats, and things that can sustain life there. Once at the coast, head west again, to Tripoli, behind the Italian lines."

The room was deathly silent.

Von Waldenfels was the first to speak. His voice trembled. "General, there are no roads in the desert. Fifty men in a group, without vehicles, water, or food, can't go very far."

Rommel looked at him. "You can go. The Panzer III's range is 150 kilometers, but that's the tank's range, not a person's. A person can go much farther. With just a sip of water and a piece of bread, a person can go 200 kilometers, 300 kilometers, 400 kilometers. As long as the direction is right."

He paused.

"We also have camels. There are more than a dozen camels in the slums north of the city, which can carry water, food, and the wounded. If that's not enough, we'll bring horses too. If we don't have enough horses, we'll walk. The legs of German soldiers are no worse than anyone else's."

A young colonel raised his hand. His name was Brückner, a regimental commander in the 5th Light Panzer Division, in his early thirties, with a scar on his face from shrapnel.

"General, what if they get separated? What if the groups lose contact? What if someone gets lost?"

Rommel looked at him. "Then they'll get separated, they'll lose contact, they'll get lost. And then they'll die. But someone will always make it out. Someone will always get to Tripoli, return to Germany, and tell the Führer what battles we fought in North Africa, and how we lost."

He stood up.

"Gentlemen, this is not a retreat. This is a breakout. We are not running away, we are changing our route. Tanks are lost, but we can build more. Fuel is gone, but we can get more. As long as we are alive, as long as we have a breath left, we have not lost."

He turned and looked at the tapestry on the wall. The tapestry depicted the Kaaba in Mecca, the holy city for Muslims, a place pilgrims travel thousands of kilometers to reach. Now, they too would travel thousands of kilometers, not on pilgrimage, but to return home.

"At three o'clock tomorrow morning," he said. "Each group will depart from the south of the city, cross the salt flats, and enter the desert. Leave a small force in the north of the city to make a feint, so the British will think we are going to come from the coast. Leave some people in the east of the city to fire a few shots and blow up a few vehicles, so they will think we are going to break out by the road."

He turned around.

"Take all the water, all the food, all the medicine. Burn what you can't take. Blow up the tanks, blow up the cannons, blow up the trucks. Don't leave a single bullet for the British."

He paused for a moment, then said, "Go and prepare."

The officers stood up, saluted, and turned to leave. Rommel was left alone in the chapel. He stood there, staring at the kerosene lamp. The wick was nearly burned out, the flame flickering as if it might go out at any moment. He reached out and adjusted the wick, and the flame leaped up, illuminating the entire room. He saw the tapestries on the walls, the rugs on the floor, their patterns trampled and mangled. He remembered the woman who had held the stillborn infant yesterday, the way she sat at the alley entrance humming a song. He remembered the grain he had requisitioned, the sheep he had led away, the chickens he had seized. He remembered the soldiers lining up to fetch water, the way they ate their dry rations, the way they squatted against the wall cleaning their rifles.

He went back to the table, folded the map, and put it in his pocket. He walked out of the chapel and stood in the courtyard. Dawn was approaching, and a dark red light appeared on the eastern horizon, as if someone had slashed it. He stood there, watching the wound slowly grow larger, brighter, and gradually dye the entire sky red.

Von Waldenfels entered from outside the courtyard. "General, the squads are assembling. The first group of fifty men is ready in the south of the city."

Rommel nodded. "Let them go. Don't look back."

Von Waldenfels saluted.