Awarding Ceremony

Chapter 74 Awarding Ceremony

Daylight broke. The sun rose from the east, turning the entire desert golden. On the salt flats south of the city, the gray-black river still flowed, growing farther and farther away, thinner and thinner, until it finally disappeared behind the golden horizon.

Loran stood atop the dune, gazing in the direction the river disappeared. Behind him, British tanks began to rev their engines, their tracks grinding through the sand, kicking up clouds of yellow dust. Scouts shouted, officers gave orders, and soldiers ran. Everything was in motion, a desperate pursuit.

But Lorraine did not move.

He stood there, binoculars hanging around his neck, his fingers resting on the cold lens, but he didn't raise them again. He knew the river had flowed too far. The saline-alkali land became softer and more treacherous the further south he went. His tanks couldn't go in, his trucks couldn't go in, his infantry could walk, but when the infantry entered that saline-alkali land, they faced not German bullets, but hunger, thirst, and the midday sun that could scorch a person and the night wind that could freeze a person to death.

He couldn't catch them. Not because he wasn't fast enough, but because the road was wrong. Rommel had chosen a road that no mechanized force could traverse, a road only two-legged people could walk on. And his troops had reached Agaira on wheels and tracks. Now that the wheels and tracks were useless, he could only stand there, watching their figures disappear behind the horizon.

Campbell climbed up from the dune and stood beside him. His face was covered in sand, dark circles ran under his eyes, and his lips were cracked and bleeding. He hadn't had a full night's sleep for days.

"Should we pursue them or not?" Campbell asked.

Loran didn't answer. He looked at the golden horizon, at the last trace of the gray-black river being swallowed by the morning light. Then he turned and walked down the dune.

"I'm not going to pursue it anymore," he said.

Campbell paused, standing still. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then swallowed his words.

He knew Lorraine was right; if they couldn't catch up, they couldn't catch up. Continuing to chase would only drag his own troops into that roadless wasteland. But something was still weighing on his mind, making it hard for him to breathe.

"Those Germans," he murmured, unwilling to accept it, "we just let them go like that?"

Lorraine stopped and turned around. Sunlight shone from behind him, hiding his face in shadow. Campbell couldn't see his expression, only his bright, calm eyes.

"Let them go," Loran said. "The desert will take care of them for us."

He turned and continued down the dune. Campbell stood atop the dune and glanced south again. There was nothing on that golden horizon—no river, no ants, no sign of life. Only desert, endless desert, as silent as a giant tomb.

He shivered, turned around and followed Loran down the stairs.

The command tent was packed with people. Officers had rushed in from all directions; some had just been withdrawn from the front lines, their uniforms still smelling of gunpowder; some had been woken up in their sleeping bags, their eyes barely open; and some hadn't changed their clothes for days, their sweat suffocating in the tent. Everyone gathered around the table with the map spread out, waiting for Loran to speak.

Loran stood before the table, facing those tired, tense faces, unsure whether to be happy or regretful. He remained silent for a moment, then spoke.

"Rommel has escaped," he said. "He left from the south of the city, through the salt flats, and south into the desert. He walked, without vehicles or tanks, only his two legs and a compass. Sixty thousand men, divided into twelve hundred groups of fifty, each with a group leader, and each group leader with a map and a compass. They set off at three o'clock last night. We can't catch up now."

No one spoke. The tent was so quiet that you could hear the hissing of the burning kerosene lamp wick.

Loran continued, "So we're not pursuing. We'll stop here, take stock of the battlefield, regroup our troops, and tally our losses. Then we'll wait. We'll wait for news from Berlin, for news from Rome, and for those who have gone into the desert to come out and reach where they're meant to be."

He pressed his hand against the edge of the table, as if trying to steady himself. "Gentlemen, we won. Not the kind of victory reported in the newspapers, shouted on the radio, with generals banging on microphones. It was a quiet victory. We surrounded Agaira, cut off Rommel's supplies, blew up his oil depots, and forced him to break his 60,000-strong army into 1,200 groups and march into the desert. He didn't lose, but he didn't win either. He's stopped here, his tanks are stopped here, his artillery is stopped here, his trucks, his ammunition, his fuel, his medical equipment, his communications equipment—all stopped here. He led 60,000 men into the desert, but he left a war for us."

He paused, and his voice suddenly lowered.

"That's winning."

A long silence fell over the tent. The tired, tense faces, unsure whether to be happy or regretful, slowly softened. Some lowered their heads, some closed their eyes, and some slid from the table to the floor. A young staff officer suddenly burst into tears, silently, tears streaming down his cheeks, leaving two white streaks in the dust. No one laughed at him. A veteran beside him reached out and patted his shoulder, his own eyes moist. They were survivors and victors of a difficult war.

Loran stood there, watching the people. He suddenly felt incredibly tired, not physically, but a deep, bone-chilling exhaustion that no amount of sleep could alleviate. He thought of Moshead, of him standing on the riverbed, holding a revolver and firing at a tank. He remembered him falling, face up, eyes open, lips slightly parted, as if saying something. He remembered his last words, spoken to Campbell in that salt flat, before he stood up and walked towards the tank.

"Old Mo said that his proudest achievement in life was not how many battles he won, but that he brought his men back alive from Dunkirk." Campbell's voice sounded behind him, very low and soft, as if afraid of disturbing something.

Lorraine asked, "Did he say what his biggest regret was?"

Campbell was silent for a moment. "He said his biggest regret was not dying in Dunkirk. He felt he owed someone a debt because he wasn't buried there."

Loran didn't speak. He stepped out of the tent and stood on the sand outside. The sun was high in the sky, bathing the entire camp in a blinding white light. Soldiers sat in twos and threes on the shady side of the dunes; some were cleaning their rifles, some were eating dry rations, and some were dozing off against their backpacks. No one laughed, no one cried; they just sat quietly, as if waiting for something.

What were they waiting for? Loran didn't know. Maybe they were waiting for orders to go home, maybe for orders to fight the next battle, or maybe they were waiting for nothing at all, just tired and wanting to rest for a while.

He headed north of the city. There was an open area there, the place Rommel had used for his feint. Scattered on the ground were spent shell casings, rags, and empty cans, along with several abandoned trucks, parked haphazardly behind the dunes, their Iron Crosses worn and faded by the sand. Several soldiers were counting the trucks. One of them climbed into the cab, looked around, and poked his head out, shouting, "Out of fuel! The dashboard's smashed!"

Another man crouched behind the truck, using his bayonet to pry open a wooden crate containing canned sardines—Italian goods. He took out a can, pried open the lid with his bayonet, smelled it, and then began to eat it in large mouthfuls. Those nearby watched him, swallowing hard, but didn't try to take it. After a while, someone pulled a crate of biscuits from another truck; they were as hard as rocks, but still edible. The biscuits circulated among the crowd, and everyone broke off a small piece, chewing slowly, a sense of mutual understanding evident in their eyes.

Loran walked past them, unnoticed. They were too exhausted to even salute. He continued walking, until he reached the highest sand dune in the north of the city. From there, he could see the entire city of Agira—the mud-brick houses, the narrow alleyways, and the dome of the mosque. The pigeon on the dome was gone; it had probably flown away to find food somewhere.

He squatted down and sat on the sand. The sand was scorching hot; he could feel the heat even through his trousers. He took out a piece of dry rations from his pocket, broke off a small piece, and put it in his mouth. The rations were as hard as rocks; it took him a while to swallow them. He wrapped up the rest and put it back in his pocket.

Campbell climbed up from the dune and sat down beside him. He also took out a piece of dry rations, broke off a small piece, and chewed it. The two of them sat there, chewing their hard rations, neither of them saying a word.

After a long silence, Campbell spoke. "The men from Moshead have been found."

Loran paused for a moment as he chewed his dry rations.

"In the saline-alkali land. On the edge of the riverbed. He lay there, face up, eyes closed, still clutching the revolver. There were two bullets left in the magazine." Campbell's voice was flat, as if reading a report. "His chest was pierced by a shell, a hole the size of a fist, the edges charred. But there was no sign of pain on his face, as if he were asleep."

Loran nodded. He didn't ask what happened to Moshead's body. He knew that in the desert, the dead didn't have coffins or tombstones. They would be wrapped in blankets and buried under the dunes, facing Mecca—Moshead wasn't Muslim, but those buried in the desert, regardless of their religion, always faced Mecca, because that was the only direction.

"I had a stone placed on his grave," Campbell said. "His name is engraved on the stone."

His unit number and date of death. Someone will come looking for him after the war is over.

Loran didn't speak. He looked at the open area north of the city, at the abandoned trucks, the scattered shell casings, and the footprints growing fainter and fainter in the sand. Those footprints were left by the three hundred German soldiers who had made the feint last night. Where were they now? Had they followed Rommel south, remained in the city as prisoners, or died in the saline-alkali soil? He didn't know.

"Let's go." Loran stood up, brushing the sand off his pants. "There's still a lot to do."

He descended the dune and headed towards the camp. Campbell followed behind, the two of them walking step by step on the sun-baked sand. Two deep footprints were left in the sand, but the wind blew and sand slowly seeped into them, blurring them in no time, and then disappearing completely.

The whole of Agaira was busy for the next few days.

The inventory of spoils began on day one and continued for several days. The amount of equipment Rommel had abandoned in the city far exceeded everyone's expectations. Tanks, artillery, trucks, motorcycles, ammunition, fuel, food, medicine, communication equipment, and engineering equipment filled every street, every square, and every open space in the city.

Campbell and his men spent several days sorting and registering all the items. He squatted next to an abandoned Panzer IV tank, holding a notebook and meticulously recording everything. The Iron Cross on the turret was mottled by sand, the tracks were stuck in the sand, and the tank was tilted to one side, like a exhausted beast.

"Type 4F, marked by the 15th Panzer Division. Engine intact, gearbox intact, gun barrel 60% wear, tracks still usable. Out of fuel, but everything else is fine."

He stood up, wrote a few lines in his notebook, and then walked to the next vehicle. It was a Panzer III J, with a hole in its turret from an armor-piercing shell; the steel plate around the hole was curled up like an iron flower. There was a scratch on the side of the hull, drawn from the turret to the rear, deep enough to fit a finger.

"This one's totaled," Campbell said. "The turret's been shot through, and the engine's broken. Let's take apart the parts; whatever's usable, we can put it on another vehicle."

A soldier climbed into the tank, and after a while, he poked his head out, his face covered in oil. "The engine block is cracked, beyond repair. The gearbox is still usable, and the radiator is fine too. The seat is gone; it was taken away."

Campbell nodded and wrote a few more lines in his notebook. He walked to the third tank, a Panzer III Ausf. H, older than the Ausf. J, with a lower profile and shorter gun barrel. Its tracks were broken, and it lay sprawled on the sand like a beetle with a broken leg. The front of the hull was riddled with over a dozen shell craters, as if it had been hit by shotgun shells. But none of them had penetrated; although the frontal armor of the Panzer III Ausf. H was thin, the British two-pounder gun couldn't penetrate it from 300 meters away.

"This one can still be repaired," Campbell said. "Just replace a track. What about the engine?"

A soldier poked his head out of the hatch. "The engine's fine. The gearbox's a bit stiff, just add some nitro. The ammunition racks are empty; we're out of shells."

Campbell jotted it down in his notebook and then moved on to the next bus. He kept noting down buses one after another, for the entire afternoon.

As darkness fell, he took the statistics to Lorraine's tent. Lorraine was sitting on his cot cleaning his pistol when he saw him come in. He put the gun down and took the notebook.

"Tanks: 11 Panzer IV Ausf. F, 3 Panzer IV Ausf. A, 19 Panzer III J, and 7 Panzer III H. Seven Panzer IV Ausf. F, 12 Panzer III J, and 5 Panzer III H can be repaired. The rest can be salvaged for parts. Artillery: 6 105mm howitzers, 12 75mm anti-tank guns, and 8 20mm anti-aircraft guns. All are usable, and we have a good supply of ammunition. Trucks: 120 trucks, about 40 of which are drivable. The rest are out of fuel, but the trucks are in good condition; they can be driven again with a full tank."

Lorraine flipped through the numbers, page after page. The numbers danced before his eyes, like a pile of fragments being pieced back together. He suddenly remembered something: a few months earlier, in Dakar, he had squatted in a warehouse like this, counting the gold shipped from France. Twenty-three tons of gold, piled up like a small mountain. Back then, he thought that with this gold, Free France could hold on. Now he felt that with these tanks, cannons, and trucks, Free France could not only hold on, but continue fighting.

He closed the notebook and handed it back to Campbell. "Pick the good ones. Take the best Panzer IV Fs, repaint them, and put our markings on them. Also, pick a few good Panzer III Js for the Mosheads—no, for the Australians. They need armored forces."

Campbell nodded and put the notebook away.

Lorraine picked up the pistol again and continued cleaning it. There were still traces of gunpowder residue in the barrel. He poked at it a few times with a cleaning rod to remove the black powder, then wiped it clean with a cloth.

"Campbell," he said.

"exist."

"Those tanks were brought from Germany by Rommel. Each one cost a lot of money, time, and manpower. Now he's just leaving them here. Think about it, why would he abandon them?"

Campbell thought for a moment. "Out of gas. Can't take it with me."

"Yes. Out of fuel. But it's not just out of fuel. If he wanted to, he could blow up the tank. If he did, we wouldn't be able to use it. But he didn't. Do you know why?"

Campbell shook his head.

Loran pulled the cleaning rod out of the barrel and held it up to the light to examine it. The cleaning rod was spotless, without a trace of black.

"Because he thought he would come back for them someday," Loran said. "He left the tanks in Agaira, the cannons in Agaira, the trucks in Agaira. He thought he could walk back to the desert, to Tripoli, to Tunisia, and then bring back oil by sea to drive those tanks away again."

He lowered the cleaning rod and began loading bullets into the barrel. One, two, three, the magazine was full, and he tucked it into the handle with a click.

"He's not coming back," Lorraine said calmly. "Those tanks are ours now."

In the days that followed, the entire city of Agaira was transformed into a massive repair shop. Everywhere there were clanging and banging sounds, the hissing of welding torches, and the roar of engines.

The engineers borrowed tankers from the British and brought in diesel and gasoline from Egypt. Tanks were towed one after another into a makeshift repair shed, tracks were replaced with new sections, gun barrels were straightened, engines were disassembled and cleaned, and gearboxes were filled with new lubricating oil. Those abandoned German tanks were brought back to life in the hands of the French and British; the original Iron Cross on the turrets was scraped off and replaced with the Lorraine Cross, the insignia of Free France.

Loran went to the repair shed every day to check on the tanks. He squatted next to a Panzer IV F, watching the engineers pour oil into the engine. The young engineer looked up, his face covered in oil, and grinned. "Major, this tank is much easier to drive than our Matilda. It's fast, nimble, and the gun is accurate."

Loran nodded. "Can you drive?"

"Yes. I tried it out yesterday, driving a few kilometers outside the city. It felt just as natural as driving my own car."

"Then drive it. From now on, this will be your car."

The young engineer was stunned. "My vehicle?"

"Yes. Your vehicles. From now on, your company will use these German tanks. You'll maintain, repair, and drive your own vehicles. If they get damaged, you'll tow them back for repairs. If they can't be repaired, you'll dismantle them for parts. The dismantled parts will be used for other vehicles."

The young sapper stood there, unsure what to say. He looked down at his hands, filthy, with grime embedded in his fingernails. Suddenly, the grime wasn't dirty anymore. It was grime from German tanks, and now it was his.

Loran stood up and walked to the next tank. It was a Panzer III Ausf. J, with an Iron Cross still etched on the turret. He reached out and touched the cross, his fingertips brushing against the cold metal. He thought of Rommel, of the man who walked into the desert, of him standing beside the command vehicle, binoculars in hand, watching the eastern sky grow brighter. Did he ever imagine that one day his tank would be driven away by the enemy, that it would be turned against his soldiers?

He didn't know. All he knew was that those tanks were now his.

Outside the tent, a communications soldier ran over, holding a telegram. "Major, from Cairo."

Lorraine took the telegram and glanced at it. It was short, containing only a few lines: "General Wavell will arrive in Agairah tomorrow to inspect the troops and preside over an award ceremony. Please prepare accordingly."

He nodded, then folded the telegram and put it in his pocket.

Wavell arrived the next day.

He stepped down from a small reconnaissance plane, dressed in a khaki uniform and wearing his famous monocle. He was much thinner than Lorraine remembered, with prominent cheekbones and deep-set eyes, but his back was very straight and his steps were steady. As he descended the gangway, he stood on the sand, looking around at the abandoned German tanks, the turrets repainted with the Lorraine cross, and the engineers busy in the repair shed. His lips twitched, as if he wanted to smile, but he didn't.

Loran went up to her and saluted.

When Wavell saw Lorraine, he took a deep breath and returned the greeting respectfully, his tone filled with concern.

You've lost weight.

Loran didn't speak. Wavell looked at the tanks again and nodded.

"Well done," he said.

They walked together into the camp. Wavell walked slowly, each step firm and deliberate, as if measuring this land he had never set foot on before. He walked past the tents, the tanks, and the soldiers squatting on the ground cleaning their guns.

Someone recognized him, stood up and saluted, and he waved for them to continue.

They entered Lorraine's tent. The tent was simple, containing a cot, a table, a chair, and a map hanging on the wall. Wavell sat down in the chair, and Lorraine stood opposite him.

"Where has Rommel gone?" Wavell asked.

"I don't know. He went south and into the desert. We didn't chase after him."

Wavell nodded. "Why not go after them?"

"We can't catch up. He has 60,000 men, divided into 1,200 groups, breaking out in different directions. We only have 20,000, chasing one and losing another. Besides, he has no vehicles, and neither do we. Our vehicles can't get into the saline-alkali land, so we can only rely on our own two feet. Two feet chasing two feet, we can't catch up."

Wavell was silent for a moment. "Do you think he can walk out?"

Loran thought for a moment.

."able."

Wavell looked at him. "You seem to admire him a lot."

Loran did not answer. Wavell stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at the desert, which was tanned white by the sun.

"I admire him too," Wavell said, "but I admire you even more. Do you know why?"

Loran shook his head.

Wavell turned to look at him. "Because he's a good fighter, and he wins. There are many who fight, but few who win. Even fewer who can win after losing. You started with Stoney, and you kept losing. You lost France, you lost Paris, you lost all of Europe. But you never stopped. You went to London, you went to Africa, you went to the desert. You fought the Italians with three hundred men, you fought Rommel with twenty thousand. You lost so many times, but in the end you won. Do you know why?"

Loran did not speak.

Wavell walked back to him and stopped. "Because you're not afraid to lose. Rommel was. He was afraid to lose to a Frenchman, afraid to lose to a lieutenant, afraid to lose to a conquered nation. So he didn't dare put all his eggs in one basket. He always wanted to hold back, always wanted a way out, always wanted to leave with dignity after losing. You're different. You have no way out. You've had no way out since Stoney. When a person has no way out, he wins."

The tent remained quiet for a long time. Loran stood there, looking into Wavell's eyes. Those eyes were bright, as bright as a stone in the desert that had been baked by the sun all day and was still glowing at night.

"Thank you, General," he said.

Wavell shook his head. "You're welcome. You should thank yourself. And those who fought alongside you. Moshead, Ramirez, Lefebvre, Boucher, and those who fell in Stoney, in Dakar, in Porto Brega. They are the real winners."

He turned around and walked towards the outside of the tent. Reaching the door, he stopped and glanced back.

"You will preside over tomorrow's medal-awarding ceremony. Those tanks, those cannons, those trucks are your spoils of war. Those who fought alongside you are also your soldiers. You should stand at the very front."

After saying that, he walked out.

The medal-awarding ceremony was held the following day in an open area north of the city. The soldiers had rested well and were in high spirits in the desert.

The sun had just risen in the east, turning the entire desert golden. More than two thousand people stood there, in a square formation, facing east, towards the direction of the rising sun. They wore sun-bleached uniforms, helmets dulled by the sand, and rifles slung across their shoulders, their barrels gleaming. No one spoke, no one moved; only the wind blowing from the sea made the flags flutter loudly.

Lorraine stood at the very front of the formation. Before him was a row of repainted German tanks, their turrets adorned with bright red Lorraine crosses, resembling clusters of burning flames in the morning light. Behind him were over two thousand sun-darkened faces, over two thousand bloodshot eyes, and over two thousand bodies worn down by war. But they stood there, ramrod straight, like over two thousand trees growing in the desert.

Wavell approached him and took a wooden box from the adjutant. The box was small, made of mahogany, and engraved with the coat of arms of the King of England. He opened the box; inside was a bronze medal, with a goddess holding a sword engraved on the front and the inscription "For Heroism" on the back.

"Major Mark Lorraine," Wavell said, his voice booming and carrying far across the vast desert, "that in recognition of your outstanding command and bravery in the North African campaign, His Majesty the King has awarded you the Order of the British Army for Distinguished Service. This is one of the highest honors in the British Army, awarded to officers who have displayed exceptional bravery in combat."

He pinned the medal to Lorraine's chest, stepped back, and saluted.

Lorraine returned the greeting. He raised his hand to the brim of his hat and held it there for a long time before lowering it.

Wavell turned to the soldiers, his voice rising slightly. "Gentlemen, you have won a magnificent battle at Agaira. You have surrounded Rommel, forcing him to abandon his tanks, artillery, and trucks, and lead 60,000 men on foot into the desert. You have captured enough supplies to equip an armored division, you have taken several thousand Italian soldiers prisoner, and you have liberated Agaira. From this day forward, this desert is no longer German territory. From this day forward, we are the ones who call the shots here."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the sun-darkened faces.

"In my capacity as Commander-in-Chief of the British Middle East Command, I award you all the North African Campaign Medal. Each and every one of you deserves this medal."

The applause rang out, not loud, but long-lasting. The soldiers stood there, clapping, watching the flag fluttering in the morning breeze. Some laughed, some cried, and some simply stood there, watching the eastern sun, their expressions blank.

Loran stood at the front, his medal gleaming in the sunlight. He glanced down at the medal, then looked up at the tanks, the artillery, the trucks, and the soldiers. He suddenly remembered what Wavell had said yesterday: "You should thank yourself. And those who fought alongside you."

Those people aren't here. They're in the ruins of Stoney, by the port of Dakar, beside the oil tanks of Brega, on the edge of the riverbed in the salt flats. They lie beneath the dunes, facing Mecca, covered with blankets, their graves weighed down by stones. They are the true victors.