Integration

Chapter 75 Integration

The day after the awarding ceremony, Loran stood on the highest sand dune north of Agella, looking at the southern horizon.

The desert gleamed white under the midday sun, like a frozen sea of ​​fire. A wind blew from the south, carrying a dry, scorching air, devoid of any sign of life, only sand and more sand. He held up his binoculars, adjusting them again and again; through the lens, there were only dunes, endless dunes, stretching like a yellow ocean to the horizon. Beyond that lay the Sahara, and death.

Rommel had been venturing into that death zone for a long time. Lorraine had calculated that an adult hiking in the desert consumes at least half a liter of water per hour. When Rommel's men set out from Agaira, each carried less than three liters of water. That little water would last at most two days. After two days, they would have to survive on their own urine and camel blood. After that, it would all depend on willpower.

How long could the Germans' will last? Loran didn't know. He only knew that the straight-line distance from Agaira to Tripoli was over 800 kilometers. Even if they walked day and night, covering 40 kilometers a day, it would still take them 20 days. Twenty days without water, food, medicine, or rescue. After twenty days, no more than half of them would still be standing and walking out of the desert.

But Rommel didn't need to go all the way to Tripoli. He only needed to go to the sea, to a fishing village with water, to a port with boats. The North African coastline makes a sharp bend west of Agaira, changing from an east-west direction to a north-south direction. Traveling north along that coastline, passing Sirte, Misrata, and Homs, one finally reaches Tripoli. Dozens of fishing villages and small ports are scattered along the coastline, each potentially offering water, food, and boats.

If Rommel can reach the sea, he will survive.

Loran put down his binoculars and walked down the sand dune.

The camp was quiet. Most of the soldiers were resting, lying in their tents, on the shady side of the dunes, under abandoned German trucks. They were exhausted, so exhausted that even speaking was a struggle. The few who were still awake were doing the same thing: cleaning their guns. In North Africa, cleaning a gun was the only thing that required no thought, no effort, and made one feel like they were doing something worthwhile. As Loran walked past them, someone looked up at him, then looked down again. No one saluted, no one called him "sir," only their bodies involuntarily trembled. Having spent so long in the desert, everyone had forgotten those rules.

He shook his head and went into the command tent, where Campbell was already inside.

Campbell sat at the table, a newly compiled report spread out in front of him. He was thinner than six days ago, his cheekbones protruding high, and the dark circles under his eyes looked like they had been drawn on with ink. But his back was still very straight, and his fingers were still very steady as he turned the pages of the report, one by one, unhurriedly.

"The casualty statistics are out." Campbell pushed the report over.

Lorraine took it and turned the pages one by one. The numbers danced on the paper like a pile of ashes scattered by the wind.

The Australian 9th Division, 2nd Brigade, suffered 317 dead, 205 seriously wounded, and countless minor wounded. The New Zealand 4th Brigade suffered 283 dead and 179 seriously wounded. The remnants of the British 7th Armoured Division suffered 122 dead and 89 seriously wounded. The Free French North African forces suffered 201 dead and 133 seriously wounded.

He closed the report and placed it on the table. The numbers swirled in his mind like a swarm of flies unable to find their way out.

"Where are the men from Moshead?" Lorraine asked.

Campbell paused. "They wanted to bury him in the salt flats, but then decided to cremate him. They brought his ashes home; his wife is waiting for him."

Loran nodded. He recalled Moshead standing on the edge of the riverbed, firing a revolver at a tank. The tank's gun barrel gleamed a dark gray in the morning light, like an eye just opening.

"Campbell," Lorraine said.

"exist."

"Report the names of Moshead and the fallen soldiers, not a single one can be omitted."

Campbell nodded and wrote it down in his notebook.

Loran stood up and walked outside the tent. The sun was already setting, casting a dark red glow over the entire campsite.

The soldiers began to crawl out of their tents, preparing for dinner. The cooks had set up several large pots on the east side of the camp, simmering a paste-like substance that was hard to identify. The smell wafted in the wind—salty, fishy, ​​and with a distinctive earthy odor of the desert.

Lorraine walked over and stood by the pot. The cook saw him, ladled out a bowl, and handed it to him. He took it, squatted down by the pot, and stirred the mushy mixture with a spoon. It contained a few pieces of meat, some dried-out vegetables, and some soaked hard biscuits. He scooped a spoonful and put it in his mouth; it was salty, hot, and had an indescribable taste. He scooped another spoonful and swallowed.

A young soldier squatted nearby, also eating the bowl of mushy food. He ate slowly, chewing each bite for a long time, as if savoring a delicacy. Loran recognized him; he was the one who had found the canned sardines in the German truck when they were counting the spoils in the north of the city. His name was Thompson, an Australian, from the 2nd Battalion.

"Thompson," Lorraine called to him.

Thompson looked up, still with the paste in his mouth, and mumbled a response.

"Now that the war is over, what do you plan to do?"

Thompson paused for a moment. He swallowed the mushy substance, thought for a moment, and said, "Going home. My dad has a farm in Sydney, he raises sheep. I had a fight with him when I left; he said I shouldn't have joined the army, and I said he didn't understand. Now I want to go back and tell him, he understands."

Loran nodded. He didn't ask Thompson why he thought his father understood. He knew that people who had been in the desert for a long time would start to miss home and things they used to take for granted.

A real cup of coffee, a clean bed, an afternoon without having to wear a military uniform.

The next day, Loran convened a meeting of all officers of colonel rank and above.

The meeting place was set up on an open field in the north of the city. There were no tents, no chairs; everyone sat cross-legged on the sand in a circle. The sun had just risen in the east, casting long, long shadows on everyone, like a group of silent giants. Loran sat in the very center, a map spread out in front of him.

"Gentlemen," he began, his voice hoarse but steady, "Rommel has been in the desert for a long time."

Give him a week, and he can walk at least two hundred kilometers. Another week, and he'll reach the sea. Then he'll find a boat, water, food, and a way to survive. He'll return to Germany, reorganize his troops, bring back tanks, artillery, and planes, and fight his way back into North Africa.

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

"So we can't wait for him to come back. We must fortify the defenses in North Africa before he returns. Every port, city, and road along the 3,000-kilometer coastline from Egypt to Tripoli must be in our hands."

His finger moved across the map, starting from Alexandria, heading west, passing through Matrouh, Tobruk, Benghazi, Agairah, Port Regha, Sirte, Misrata, Hums, and finally stopping at one point: Tripoli.

"Our forces need reorganization," Loran said. "The remnants of the 7th Armored Division will be withdrawn to Egypt for rest and reorganization. The 2nd Brigade of the Australian 9th Division will be transferred to Benghazi. The New Zealand 4th Brigade will be transferred to Tobruk. The Free French North African Forces will remain in Agairah."

He looked at the officers, one by one. Campbell, Leclerc, Putrick, and several regimental and battalion commanders whose names he didn't recognize. They were all looking at him, waiting for him to continue.

"The Free French North African forces are hereby reorganized as the 1st Free French Armored Brigade, effective today. It will consist of three tank battalions, one artillery battalion, and one infantry battalion. Colonel Leclerc will serve as the brigade commander."

Leclerc paused for a moment, about to say something, but Lorraine raised his hand to stop him.

"Brigadier General Campbell will be recalled to the United Kingdom for another assignment. Brigadier General Putrick will lead the New Zealand 4th Brigade to Tobruk. Brigadier General Moshead—who left behind the 2nd Brigade of the Australian 9th Division—will be taken over by his deputy."

He stood up.

"Gentlemen, the Battle of Agaira is over. We have won. But the war is not over. Rommel will return, and Hitler will send more troops, more tanks, more planes, and more ships. We must be prepared. Not for one battle, but for this war. Not for today, but for tomorrow."

The officers stood up, saluted him, and then turned and left. A deep circle of buttocks was left in the sand. The wind blew in from the sea, and sand slowly seeped into the marks. Before long, the marks blurred, and after a while, there was no trace left at all.

Loran stood there alone, watching the figures walk away. He suddenly felt very tired, not physically tired, but a kind of weariness that seeped into his bones, a weariness that no amount of sleep could relieve. He squatted down and gathered the sand that had been scattered by the wind, making a small sand pile. The sand pile was small, only the size of a fist, and shimmered with a faint golden light in the morning light.

He stood up and walked down the sand dune.

In the days that followed, Loran devoted all his energy to the reorganization of the troops. He worked from dawn till dusk every day, hardly closing his eyes. He inspected every captured tank, every cannon, and every truck. He personally selected the crew members, personally arranged the training plan, and personally formulated the operational regulations. He locked himself in his tent for days on end, writing and drawing on maps and in his notebook. When he got tired, he would doze off at the table for a while, and when he woke up, he would continue writing.

Leclerc came to him, but he wouldn't see him. Campbell came to him, but he wouldn't see him either. Putrike came to him, but he shook his head. He only saw those who could help him: engineers, mechanics, logistics officers, and colonial veterans who had fled mainland France and spent many years in Africa. He discussed tank maintenance with them, the transportation of fuel, the management of ammunition, and the storage of food. He asked many questions, took many notes, and then asked the same questions and took the same notes again the next day.

"What are you looking for?" Leclerc finally couldn't hold back any longer and one night blocked the entrance to Lorraine's tent, preventing him from going in.

Loran stood outside the tent, holding a stack of freshly written notes. He looked terrible; his eyes were sunken, his cheekbones were prominent, and his lips were cracked and bleeding. But his eyes were bright, as bright as stones in the desert that had been baked by the sun all day and were still shining at night.

"Find a way," Loran said.

"What road?"

Lorraine didn't answer. He walked past Leclerc, went into the tent, placed the notebook on the table, and began to pack his things. He rolled up the map and stuffed it into a cylinder. He stacked the notebooks and tied them with rope.

I put the pen into the pen holder, capped the ink bottle, turned off the lamp, and the tent became dark.

Leclerc stood in the doorway, watching him pack.

"Where are you going?" Leclerc asked.

Lorraine stuffed the last item into his backpack, zipped it up, and stood up. He walked over to Leclerc and stopped in front of him.

"Go find de Gaulle," Lorraine said.

Leclerc was stunned. "De Gaulle is in London."

"I know."

"Are you going to London?"

"right."

He stood there, looking at Lorraine's face, at those tired, sunken, yet still bright eyes. He suddenly remembered something: before the Battle of Agailah, Lorraine had asked him a question. "Leclerc, what do you want to do after the war?" he had said. He had said he wanted to go back to France, to Paris, to sit in a café, drink a real cup of coffee, and watch people walk by on the street. Lorraine listened, neither smiling nor speaking, but simply nodding.

Now he knew why Lorraine had asked that question. Because during wartime, you don't know if you'll survive until the end. You can only find something to hold onto, something that keeps you going even as bullets whiz past your ears. What was Lorraine's hope? He hadn't known before, but now he did.

"When are you leaving?" Leclerc asked.

"Tomorrow, in the early morning, a ship will depart from Benghazi, first to Cairo, and then transfer in Cairo to London."

Leclerc nodded. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but something seemed to be stuck in his throat, and he couldn't utter a sound. He stood there, watching Lorraine sling his backpack over his shoulder, watching him tuck the cylinder full of notes under his arm, watching him take one last look around the tent where he had stayed for so many days.

"Leclerc," Lorraine said.

"exist."

"This place is yours. Those tanks, those soldiers, all the stuff we captured from the Germans—they're all yours. Use them well, don't waste them."

In fact, Loran certainly knew he could use these skills well; he was just choosing to give him a heads-up.

Leclerc nodded.

Loran turned around, lifted the curtain, and went out. Moonlight shone on him, casting a long, long shadow on the sand, like a drawn bow. He walked past the tents, the tanks, and the soldiers squatting on the ground cleaning their guns. Some people looked up at him, someone called out "Major," but he didn't turn around. He simply raised his hand, waved behind him, and continued walking.

Leclerc stood at the tent entrance, watching the figure walk further and further away, smaller and smaller, until it disappeared into the moonlight. The wind blew in from the sea, carrying a salty, fishy smell, slowly smoothing away the footprints on the sand. He stood there for a long time, until the wind stopped, until the moon was obscured by clouds, until he could see nothing at all.

He then turned around and went into the tent.

Early the next morning, Benghazi port.

It was still dark. A thin layer of fog covered the sea, obscuring the distant ships as if they were seen through frosted glass. Loran stood on the dock, waiting for the ship that would take him to Cairo. His backpack was at his feet, his backpack tucked under his arm, and his coat collar was turned up to shield him from the cold wind blowing in from the sea.

The dock was quiet. Only the sound of waves lapping against the embankment, slow and gentle, like a heartbeat. Occasionally, a few sailors would pass by, exchanging a few words in a language Loran couldn't understand, before disappearing into the mist. He stood there, watching the ship slowly approach the shore. It wasn't a large ship, an ordinary cargo vessel, its hull rusted and worn, as if it hadn't been maintained in a long time. Wooden crates and oil drums were piled on the deck, and several sailors were untying the mooring lines, their movements slow and deliberate, as if sleepwalking.

"Loran".

He turned around. Campbell stood behind him, wearing a wrinkled trench coat with the collar open, revealing his military uniform underneath. His face looked pale in the morning light, with heavy bags under his eyes and stubble on his lips from the previous night.

"Why are you here?" Loran asked.

Campbell didn't answer. He walked up to Lorraine and stopped. The two stood facing each other, neither speaking. The sea breeze blew between them, carrying the salty smell and a hint of chill.

Campbell extended his hand. Lorraine grasped it. The hand was rough, with large knuckles and thick calluses on the palm. After a moment, Campbell released his hand and took a step back.

"Take care, sir," Campbell said.

Loran glanced back; the two burly men looked on blankly.

"You're the same, Campbell."

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