Chapter 472: A Sky Full of Yellow Sand

The British could clearly feel it. The force attacking their front was not their old adversary, the Italians. It was as if on a football pitch, the opponent had suddenly switched from the soft Chinese team to the hard-as-steel German team. The British suddenly found that the enemy in front of their positions had changed from the soft Italian army to the formidable German soldiers.

It was a painful experience of being suppressed in every detail. The good habits they had developed while fighting the Italian North African forces had, at this moment, become a death warrant for every British soldier and officer.

Precise German artillery fire directly greeted the British positions. Some British soldiers, who didn’t even try to take cover, were sent to heaven by the shells. No one believed that Italian artillery could be so accurate, and no one believed that their own camp had long since been marked on the maps of the German commanders.

The subsequent German attack was even more agonizing for the British. The feeling of being in a storm of steel was no different from hell. The weapons in the hands of the German soldiers had an absolute advantage in every respect. For example, they had faster-firing rifles, better-performing machine guns, and even more convenient and effective rocket launchers.

When a British commander, accustomed to standing on his position and observing the enemy with binoculars, was shot through the lung by a German sniper, the British officers finally remembered that 550 meters was not a safe distance—at least, not when facing a German sniper.

“Medic! Medic! Major Gert has been hit! He’s been hit!” a soldier shouted, supporting his superior officer whose chest had just been pierced. The shot had come very suddenly. If the enemy had probed with a machine gun or rifle first, he swore he would have taken Major Gert to cover. But the shot had just appeared out of nowhere, hitting the major directly.

On the position not far away, the unique sound of the Germans’ machine guns could still be heard. The soldier watched as Major Gert, spitting up bloody foam, struggled, kicking his legs, and was at a loss for what to do.

A few British soldiers, holding their distinctive wide-brimmed steel helmets, ran over, shouting warnings to their comrades. “The Germans are attacking! Their tanks are just ahead! Get out of here, quickly! If you’re too slow, you’ll be captured by the Germans! My God, their shooting is so accurate.”

At the end of the horizon, German tanks could be seen organizing for an attack. Those tanks all had very low profiles, but the German tanks were clearly much better than the scrap metal in the hands of the Italians. These uniquely shaped German tanks could open fire from a great distance, using high-explosive shells to destroy the British defensive positions.

Boom! A British tank not far away fired. Just a few minutes after the soldier had started running with the major, who was now barely breathing, on his back, he saw the British tank’s counter-attack. A dozen or so British Matilda tanks appeared on a sand dune, crushing the small desert plants as they charged towards the German tanks.

But then he witnessed an unforgettable scene. An armor-piercing shell directly shattered the frontal armor of a Matilda tank, reducing this British tank, which was world-famous for its thick armor, to spare parts. The powerful impact slightly deformed the entire tank’s hull, and the subsequent violent explosion blew the tank’s turret clean off.

Penetrating the armor of a Matilda tank from 500 meters away with one shot? To the British tankers in North Africa, this was simply a joke. The pitiful little Italian tanks were no match for the Matilda. So this thunderous blow stunned the surrounding British soldiers. It wasn’t until a second British tank was destroyed that everyone remembered they were still in the process of fleeing for their lives.

“What did you say? What? Speak more clearly! The Italians are counter-attacking? The Germans? How could the Germans possibly counter-attack… I want you to confirm it before you report! You don’t know anything and you’re screaming for reinforcements, how can I give them to you?” The enraged old British general slammed the phone down.

He walked to the map in front of him and began to confirm the battlefield situation with his operations staff. The British defenders’ main front had been breached, which was something he found somewhat unimaginable. He had been managing this defensive line for a month, and it had been breached in just one hour.

However, this was not the main reason for his anger. He was furious that the two divisions he had placed at the front had been fighting until now without even figuring out who their opponent was, or how strong the enemy force was. All the units were reporting that they had suffered heavy losses, but they couldn’t explain how many troops had attacked them.

“The counter-attacking armored unit was forced to retreat one kilometer to the east. The enemy armored unit should be German. Our tank commander reported that the opponent should have a battalion of tanks, about 30 or so,” the staff officer said to the old general, holding several telegrams that had just arrived.

“Major Gert, the commander of the 90th Division’s 1st Regiment, was just killed in action,” the old general sighed, his voice full of sadness. “I got along well with him. A fine young man. A pity.”

Just as the old general was reminiscing about his friend, a telegraph operator handed another new report to the staff officer. The staff officer compared it with the map, then drew a few thick lines on the map with a blue pencil.

“The enemy has broken through to the junction of the two divisions. They have established very complete flanking defensive positions here and here. The Italians could not have carried out such a fluid attack. This unit is German,” the staff officer said, looking at the old general and then pointing to the thick lines. “The opponent has about an infantry regiment and an armored battalion on the main front, a battalion here, and another regiment on the flank… This is an infantry division.”

The old general shook his head, pointed to the rear of the German attacking force, and said with great confidence, “They would never commit all their forces to an attack. I believe they have a tank division hidden here, waiting for us to counter-attack!”

He was sure of his intelligence about the scale of the German forces. He guessed that the Germans should have one panzer division and two infantry corps, and that these units could not all be thrown into an offensive at the same time due to supply problems. So he was convinced that the German force on his front was one infantry division and one panzer division. In that case, the reserves he had on hand were clearly not enough for a counter-attack. He could only follow his pre-arranged plan and begin a full-scale retreat.

But Montgomery’s guess made him hesitate. If the German forces were really only as large as they appeared, then what was there to consider? He could just counter-attack. As long as he could fight a battle of attrition, he would be sure of victory.

However, he had to act with caution. After all, he was now holding the main force of the British army in North Africa. If anything went wrong, even if they were to shoot him, it would not be able to salvage the worsening situation in North Africa. So, after thinking for a while, he still decided to follow his original intention: to preserve his strength.

“Order the troops to begin the retreat! We are returning to Tobruk!” the old general ordered after tapping his fingers on the tabletop for a few minutes. He had decided not to risk a counter-attack, but to avoid the Germans’ main thrust and lengthen their supply lines.

His decision was a very correct one. There was no need to waste limited supplies and troops for the sake of a temporary victory or defeat. The British army’s true defensive line was in the Tobruk area. By retreating now, they could leave thousands of kilometers of desert to the Germans. In any case, this was a very worthwhile trade.

At the same moment, in the German frontline command post, General Friedrick was standing with his hands behind his back, looking at the operational map in front of him, on which the battle situation of both sides was marked.

“The anticipated British counter-attack has not arrived. This is not good news for us,” he said worriedly, because the 7th Panzer Division, personally led by Rommel, had not yet appeared on the battlefield.

“Is the intensity of our attack not great enough? Are the British not yet anxious to commit their reserve forces?” the staff officer asked, equally puzzled by the chaotic situation. He was constantly sketching his guesses on the map. “If they continue to hold back their reserves, General Rommel’s situation will be very dangerous.”

Friedrick shook his head. He was convinced that his own attack was very sharp. If he were commanding on the other side at this moment, he would certainly have thrown his reserves onto the front line, because if they were to delay any longer, these reserves would not be able to salvage the current battlefield situation.

Thinking of this, Friedrick frowned again and focused his gaze on the wedge-shaped breakthrough of the German 7th Corps’ front. He then raised his eyebrows and said, “There are two possibilities for not committing the reserves at this time. First, the British have no reserves; second, the British have no intention of holding here…”

At this point, he seemed to have grasped something crucial. He carefully sorted out his thoughts again, then suddenly slammed his fist on the table and shouted, “Damn it! These British are running away!”

Having guessed the British commander’s thoughts, Friedrick couldn’t help but admire his wisdom. He had actually seen through his own dangerous situation and wanted to use a steady tactic of retreating to advance. So he quickly gave the order, “We have to change General Rommel’s operational plan. We must now commit our reserves and pin down the British army in front of us! Otherwise, by the time General Rommel appears on the flank, these British will have long since run away!”

He glanced at the chief of staff of the 7th Corps and pointed to a choke point on the map. “Order the 17th Division to catch up from the rear immediately and attack here. The 27th Division on the main front is to continue the attack! We cannot let these British troops escape!”

And at this very moment, Rommel, leading his own elite unit, the 7th Panzer Division, was still trying to find his way through the vast, yellow sand.

Published: 2025-08-28T05:03:57.000+00:00
Last Edited: 2025-11-21T16:03:23.000+00:00
URL: https://www.patreon.com/caleredhair/posts/mtr-c472-sky-of-137526281

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