Chapter 1123: Soldiers Don't Negotiate

“Marshal Rommel!” General Friedrich woke Rommel, who had fallen asleep leaning in the back seat of his convertible Mercedes-Benz luxury car. Several days on the offensive had exhausted even this energetic “Desert Fox,” so he had taken a moment to sleep in the back of his car.

This Mercedes had followed the Afrika Korps all the way from Tunisia and across the Suez Canal. The originally luxurious-looking metal trim had become rusty from the corrosion of wind and sand. In some places, the paint had even peeled off, making the car look like it was hovering on the edge of the scrap heap.

But no one familiar with the Afrika Korps would underestimate this slightly outdated car, which couldn’t even compare to the vehicle of a colonel in the Paris garrison. This was because there was only one such beat-up car in the entire Afrika Korps, and sitting inside was Marshal Erwin Rommel, the man who had led them all the way from France to Saudi Arabia.

“Oh, General Friedrich… how long was I asleep?” Rommel rubbed his eyes, and the grit on his face flaked off like dandruff. No matter how much a person cared about their image, they were bound to become disheveled when fighting a war in a place like the desert. Although they might look charming and full of a “lone wolf” appeal in photographs, enough to make a gaggle of girls scream with stars in their eyes, the moment those girls saw the real appearance of these soldiers, they would immediately dismiss the stupid idea of sleeping with them.

“We just received news. Ibn Saud has sent negotiating representatives. They hope to transfer the original American oil shares to us, in exchange for us recognizing their local rule and providing military protection.” Friedrich was also covered in grit, looking just as filthy. But it was this sand-covered general, carrying two differently-sized binoculars, who had led the 7th Infantry Corps in a steady advance, planting the German flag on the east bank of the Suez Canal.

Rommel, just waking up, took a cup from his adjutant. He took a sip of the sun-warmed boiled water, which reeked of gasoline, to moisten his dry throat. He took a few more sips before he felt a little more alert. After all, as a Marshal-level commander constantly maintaining almost the same advance speed as the frontline armored troops, the level of fatigue was not something an ordinary person could withstand.

“Give us the American oil shares? What about the British ones?” Rommel mulled over the words he had just heard from Friedrich, then looked at the 7th Infantry Corps commander who had reported the situation.

“If I’m not mistaken, their plan is to swallow up Britain’s oil production here under the guise of cooperating with us.” Friedrich wore a strange smile. Even he, a soldier, felt this matter was a bit too absurd.

If the German troops were still far away in their homeland and hadn’t managed to transport so many men to the Middle East, then it was possible they would, with the attitude of “less trouble is better,” pinch their noses and accept this plan. After all, offending Saudi Arabia, the local power, would come at a cost, and it would be far more comfortable to just get the US oil shares for free.

But now, the situation had changed. Hundreds of thousands of German and Italian troops had entered Saudi territory. The Americans and British had been routed… In this situation, Rommel didn’t mind at all if Saudi Arabia joined the Allies in resisting within his jurisdiction. That would just prevent him, the regional commander, from being demobilized.

The cost of the troops and logistics were already practically free. The capitalists were already eyeing this giant oil field about to fall into their mouths, and the military and strategists were already planning the advance to the Indian Ocean… Everyone in Germany, from top to bottom, was rubbing their hands in anticipation of carving up the Saudi oil, yet Saudi Arabia was still feeling good about itself and preparing to hoard more than half the production.

Rommel was silent for a moment before he slowly asked Friedrich, his tone filled with sarcasm, “This bunch of Arabs don’t really, naively, believe we came all this way to liberate them from the British and Americans, do they? Am I the one who’s not awake, or is this bunch of veiled fellows not awake?”

Friedrich was amused by Rommel’s rare display of humor. He leaned on Rommel’s car door, smiling wryly. “Your Excellency, Marshal, I think it’s more comfortable for us to just take what we want. These locals’ equipment is about the same as the Poles. Maybe we can take the oil facilities with 3,000 casualties.”

“General Friedrich, the Führer has always taught us that while achieving military victory, we must also have the political vision to see higher and further.” As one of Akado’s original inner circle, Rommel’s face glowed when he mentioned the Führer. He was an admirer of Akado, just as the entire Afrika Korps admired him.

He stood up from the back seat, pulled a pair of yellowed white gloves from his pocket, slapped them against his pants twice, then got out of the car from the other side and walked around to the front. “Tell those Arabs that we are soldiers of the Empire. We are only responsible for fighting… Leave the negotiating to those with slick tongues. We are clumsy with words. We only know how to speak with cannons.”

When Friedrich heard Rommel say this, he immediately showed an expression of profound admiration. The reason Rommel could make the talent-filled Afrika Korps obey his every command was that his tactical style and personality, which soldiers loved, were an inseparable package. Rommel loved to attack. Give him half the enemy’s strength, and he’d dare to plan an offensive. Risk-taking aside, this was the soul of a soldier, wasn’t it?

And when he thought and gave orders, he always made decisions that his soldiers found exhilarating. This had to be called a tacit understanding between kindred spirits. He was the kind of soldier that fit Germany’s tough style, and his men were a group of soldiers who liked that style… This was the so-called “birds of a feather flock together.”

“I am very happy to carry out this order. Let those negotiation experts deal with these Arabs. We are only responsible for fighting. Before the peace treaty is signed, our duty is to use up all the ammunition in our hands.” Friedrich nodded in agreement, his expression showing his reverence.

Rommel extended his arm, pointed in the direction of his troops’ advance, and continued, “Before the treaty is signed, our mission has not changed. Send a message to the 7th Panzer Corps HQ. Tell them not to stop for such a stupid reason. Tell them to keep advancing! Until they run out of fuel, or until they see the Persian Gulf.”

And so, under the bewildered gazes of the Saudi envoys, the German armored forces continued to roll forward, leaving their backs to these locals who wanted to discuss oil profits. Tanks and trucks whistled past on the simple road. The German soldiers on board, holding their rifles, looked down on the Arabs by the roadside with cold eyes. Their gazes met—one looking down, one looking up. The hierarchy was clear at a glance.

…

“Ibn Saud is unreliable. He doesn’t even have to think to know this isn’t the time to cooperate with us in destroying the oil fields.” Mountbatten leaned back in his chair, staring at the arrows on the map that had been extending forward for days. He finally spoke his thoughts to his aide. “Expecting the locals to retreat with us and be willing to destroy all the oil facilities… you’d be better off hoping Rommel falls out of his car and dies. That’s more realistic.”

“Sir, but if the Saudi oil production facilities aren’t destroyed as planned, the Germans’ oil resources will completely surpass ours. We will be even more passive then,” his adjutant, hearing his general, emphasized this worriedly.

Mountbatten didn’t speak. He knew his adjutant couldn’t understand what he was thinking. He couldn’t be bothered to explain, as it would be more troublesome. Even if he wanted to destroy the Middle East oil fields with all his might, it was now an impossible task.

The locals weren’t cooperating, making the plan to completely destroy the Middle East’s oil capacity impossible to execute. Mountbatten, as a British colonial general, certainly couldn’t look at the problem purely from the American perspective. The choice between helping America destroy all the Middle East oil, or leaving some for northern Britain, had also been vexing Mountbatten.

Of course, he was more inclined to destroy the entire Middle East oil fields, but he just couldn’t do it. Many oil fields on the ground had already been seized by the Saudi army amidst the chaos. The few remaining capitalists also refused to cooperate in this regard… The side effects of the forced burning of oil reserves from before were now apparent. The capitalists, seeing no hope, preferred to trust a government that could protect their wealth, rather than cooperate with a power that was forcing them to burn their wealth.

“Using demolition for deep destruction, it seems, is not feasible.” Mountbatten thought for a moment and said to his adjutant, “There is only one way left: send planes to bomb all the oil fields we control… But doing so will mean we immediately fall out with Ibn Saud, which is tantamount to pushing him directly to the Germans.”

“Sir, under these circumstances, it’s worth doing.” The adjutant was more inclined to resist to the end; he was a complete hardliner. This was also why he was here. Because the British politicians in Iceland, wanted Mountbatten to have such a “tough guy” by his side.

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