Location: Unknown, somewhere in Eastern Libya
Knock. Knock.
Sand fell from the old wooden door as it was pushed open. A man in a beige officer's uniform stepped inside, his cap slightly darker with red lining. He saluted.
"Sirs."
Inside the dim clay house, two men stood over a small table with a map spread across it.
The officer walked up and handed over a paper.
Rommel glanced at Vorbeck for a moment before taking it.
"The British Eighth Army has dug in near Tobruk. Their advance has stopped. Intelligence suggests supply issues."
Vorbeck nodded, brushing his mustache.
"Not surprising."
Rommel dismissed the lieutenant with a short wave, already looking back at the map.
"The Italians are regrouping. Two infantry divisions, one armored." He paused. "Not great, but it will do."
Vorbeck leaned in slightly.
"With our two divisions, we could start an assault. But we need to move quickly. They're still setting up defenses. If we wait, it gets harder."
Rommel stayed quiet, his eyes fixed on Tobruk.
"They won't leave that position exposed."
Vorbeck gave a small smile.
"No. The 7th Armoured Division is nearby. Their main force."
Rommel nodded.
"They'll respond fast."
A short silence followed.
"What's the second factor?" Rommel asked.
Vorbeck tapped the map behind the British lines.
"Fuel."
Rommel looked up.
"They're low on it. That's why they stopped. That division won't move far without it."
Rommel followed his finger across the map.
"And us?"
"For now," Vorbeck said calmly, "we're fine."
Rommel folded the paper and set it down.
"Then we don't attack Tobruk."
Vorbeck looked at him, responding first.
"We hit their fuel first."
Both men grinned and walked toward the door. Even through the thin wood, the noise outside seeped in.
Rommel stepped out. The sun slammed into his face, making him squint as he adjusted his cap.
Shouts.Engines.Wind.
"Looks like a sandstorm," Vorbeck said from behind.
Soldiers ran past, hauling gear, shouting orders. A supply truck rolled into a side street and stopped. The little village they'd taken for camp was empty of civilians, already buzzing with activity.
The wind picked up, whipping sand into everything. Visibility dropped fast.
Then another engine growled.
Through the swirling dust, a dark shape loomed, a Panzer IV, slow but unstoppable, its hull cutting through the storm.
Rommel smiled, pulled the goggles off his cap, and shoved them on.
He nodded at Vorbeck, grabbed the side of the tank, and swung himself into the commander's hatch.
More engines rumbled behind him. One by one, tanks rolled out of the dust, passing Vorbeck, who was already joined by a couple of senior officers.
"Let's start the war with the first battle. Call the Italians!" Vorbeck shouted, raising his hand through the storm.
"We'll create a diversion for Rommel."
The lieutenant from earlier hesitated, then spoke up.
"But sir… the Luftwaffe can't operate in this weather."
Vorbeck smiled.
"Exactly. And the RAF can't either. That's why we strike now. No advantage in air superiority? Fine, we take it out of the equation."
The lieutenant blinked.
"Leutnant…" Vorbeck paused, remembering the name. "Kracht."
The lieutenant straightened immediately, nodding, understanding exactly what Vorbeck meant.
The German positions scrambled further as the main force left the village. Trucks rumbled, carrying Vorbeck's men forward, dust swirling in their wake.
British positions at Tobruk, headquaters
"Quick! Get me the commander of the 5th Brigade!"
"Artillery should adjust fire in this direction!"
Officers shouted and gave orders through the chaos of the sandstorm. Historians would later call it Hercules.
Hercules had hit the British lines hard, throwing men and equipment into disarray. But they recovered quickly. Their commander, Major General Richard O'Connor, worked relentlessly to restore order.
"Come on! Get me Colonel Smith on the telephone!" he shouted, slamming his fist on the wooden table inside the small house he had turned into his command post in the heart of Tobruk.
He glanced at the window to his right. A wave of sand swept past as sirens howled outside, rudimentary, but effective.
"Damn that Colonel!" he cursed, pushing aside one officer after another as he stormed out the door. Sand lashed at his face, tearing his hat away into the storm. He shielded his eyes with his arm and pressed forward against the relentless wind.
Then someone joined him at his side.
"Colonel!" O'Connor shouted, recognizing the man he had been searching for.
"Yes, sir. My apologies. I came as fast as I could. Long-range German artillery hit my telephone line!"
O'Connor nodded.
"How far away are they?"
Smith clenched his jaw as they passed a guard post marking the edge of the city walls.
"The storm makes it difficult, but we estimate around 4 kilometers."
"Fine! Fine!" O'Connor repeated.
"Ready the defenses and return artillery fire immediately. The RAF is to launch as soon as the weather allows it."
"Yes, sir!" Smith shouted, already distancing himself from the general.
"Smith! Wait!" O'Connor called, his voice already fading in the sand.
"Send a brigade of the 7th armored division to the flank. Our enemies, I have studied them beforehand. One seasoned, one fresh. Especially the latter. He is known for his speed and cunning."
"Erwin Rommel," he added, managing to spot a nod through the sand.
Their voices faded beneath the raging wind and the growing explosions tearing through the sky. Shells struck the outer perimeter of Tobruk in increasing numbers, carving craters of sand and sending up screams.
From within the city walls, the British artillery pieces answered with nearly equal ferocity, hammering the advancing German and Italian forces.
After pushing through the rain of artillery fire, the first infantry troops came into range and opened fire. Across the dunes and dry grassland, hundreds of small dots could be made out as the sandstorm eased slightly.
They opened fire.
O'Connor lowered his binoculars.
"What about Colonel Nail? How about his position further south?"
Smith, standing beside him on the old city wall, had just received another report.
"He is also being assaulted by a regiment of German infantry and Italian armored units, but for now he seems to be holding them in a stalemate."
"Mhm," O'Connor muttered.
"Any breakthroughs in our line?"
"None at the moment," Smith answered plainly.
"Good. It seems they have underestimated our capabilities. Let them gnaw their teeth out. Do not counterattack. Relay that order!"
Smith saluted before running off.
O'Connor stood there calmly, already calculating his next steps. He knew the Germans were not weak, and that the current attacking force lacked the German armor that had been reported. That was exactly why he had ordered a regiment of tanks from the 7th Armored Division to secure the flank.
As unlikely as it was, Rommel might still attempt an attack from there. But O'Connor was not a man who liked being caught off guard.
"Although he is probably facing the same fuel shortages as we are, so that is most likely the reason," O'Connor told himself after waiting for some time, with no report of a flank attack coming in.
The sun slowly sank and night fell. The battle settled into a grinding stalemate, just as O'Connor had anticipated. The Germans and Italians broke through in some sectors, but the gaps were quickly closed by ample British reserves.
The attacking forces were pushed back by one of the last tank companies still operational, the other having been held in reserve on the flank by O'Connor.
Midnight, somewhere deep in the Sahara Desert.
Behind a sand dune, a rumbling could be heard. A lonely man was walking with his camel beside one of the dunes. He too heard the rumbling and stopped in his tracks. His footprints could be seen stretching for several hundred meters behind him. His camel was clambering under the weight of the water kettles and supplies it was carrying.
"Eh da?" the man muttered, turning around. His turban fluttered lightly in the wind, the sandstorm barely reaching this far.
Then he widened his eyes. A steel colossus appeared in the sky. Flying. No, it had jumped over the tall dune, suspended in the air for a moment before landing back on the soft sand. Behind it followed one after another.
Tanks, with a red flag fluttering on their turrets or at the rear.
The man panted, running uphill. The sand beneath his feet felt colder than usual at night. At the top, he stopped. A massive force of dark steel and soldiers appeared behind the dune, their dark silhouettes sending a shiver down the trader's back.
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