Comrade, your ingredients are too complicated.

Three days later at night, about 15 kilometers west of the Alamein front, the German-Italian Allied Forces Headquarters.

The hum of the diesel generator pierces the Mediterranean night; the mechanical vibrations and the rhythm of the tides collide in the darkness, creating two completely different sound patterns.

The cramps in his stomach and the roar of the diesel engine tear Rommel's nerves. He was upset and suddenly grabbed the red and blue pencil, and then smashed it hard towards the combat map.

The pencil bounced twice at the Tobruk mark and finally rolled down between the contour lines of the Katara Depression.

The abnormal behavior of the friendly commander made General Stefanis of the Italian 20th Army feel a little uncomfortable. Looking at the glaring red crack on the map, he subconsciously said:

"Sir, my armored reconnaissance battalion destroyed six anti-tank positions today. If this battle drags on, supplies will surely arrive from the mainland. Why should you worry?"

The Italian troops in North Africa were tough guys who thoroughly implemented the slogan "Our Sea".

Not only did they inflict heavy damage to the British armored forces with an astonishing casualty ratio in the First Battle of El Alamein, but they also repeatedly broke out in desperate situations in the Second Battle and staged several death battles.

The thought of friendly infantrymen daring to engage in close combat with the Commonwealth armored forces in the yellow sand with only cluster grenades and Molotov cocktails was heartbreaking.

Even the Desert Fox, who was known for his strictness, had a fleeting smile on his stern face.

"Your performance is impeccable. I have absolutely no complaints about the 20th Army."

Rommel tapped his finger heavily on the northern part of the map, and the Australian army symbol on the sand table trembled. "Montgomery transferred the Australians to the northern front. This is not a tactical adjustment, but the final assembly before the general offensive."

Having said that, he suddenly grabbed the fuel report on the table, and the papers rustled in the tense air.

"And the reserves I have on hand are only enough for the African Legion to launch an army-level counterattack. Local supplies? Far from time to time cannot quench near thirst."

"In my opinion, the next battle will either be won in one blow or..."

Silence. The battlefield command post fell into deathly silence again.

Since September this year, the decline of the German-Italian coalition in North Africa has been unstoppable like a sandstorm. While the Commonwealth's steel torrents are pouring in from the rear, the supply lines of the African Corps are as thin as a gossamer.

At the most desperate moment of the war, the armored forces on the front line even had to face Allied tanks that outnumbered their own by five times.

This huge gap is enough to make the most tenacious veteran tremble in his fingertips.

"We can't just sit there and wait for death! We must take the initiative to attack!"

"I decided to use the 15th Armored Division to contain the British on the northern line, and then use the Littorio Division to break through the gap in the Kuray Ridge. As long as the troops can break through a depth of ten kilometers, it can change the situation of the battle."

Rommel suddenly rapped his knuckles on the map, knocking over the coffee cup. The dark brown liquid spread over the British unit numbers, looking like blood that was about to spread.

Just when the Italian commander was hesitating, a communications officer suddenly broke into the command room and brought a telegram that could change the situation of the war.

"Commander, an urgent message from Berlin! The Führer ordered you not to attack or retreat, but to firmly hold the current line of defense."

The operations staff quickly stepped forward and spread the translated telegram on the edge of the sand table. When Rommel's bloodshot eyes scanned the numbers, the headquarters was so quiet that one could hear the sound of pencils rolling down.

"A new batch of supplies is being loaded and will arrive at the port in three days. It includes at least 20 days of combat fuel and 88 rounds of mm shells of various types."

"The armored forces you have been requesting have also been approved. The Führer has approved 300 Long March IIIs, 200 Long March IVs, three Tiger companies and the th Experimental Armored Battalion for the North African Corps at one time."

As soon as these words were spoken, Rommel's pupils suddenly contracted, and the telegram paper between his fingers trembled slightly in the hot desert wind.

Although his own empire and his ally Italy had completely suppressed Malta, even the Hercules landing plan had been placed on the desk of the headquarters.

But transporting supplies to North Africa at such a high cost is inconceivable no matter how you look at it.

Considering that his own leader had a record of writing blank checks, Desert Fox quickly grabbed Mou's magnifying glass and examined every character on the paper line by line.

"It's actually true. Could it be that a powerful enemy is about to enter the North African battlefield? Did the Abwehr collect some intelligence?"

The lack of intelligence made Desert Fox give up on pointless deductions. He would be able to get supplies in three days anyway, so he was confident that he could defeat any enemy, no matter how strong it was.

This thought was like a shot of morphine, instantly smoothing out the wrinkles between Rommel's brows.

Seemingly really relaxed, he actually folded the telegram into a paper airplane with sharp lines.

The paper plane flew over the winding contour lines on the sand table. The airflow caused by the wings first overturned the flag representing the British 7th Armored Division, and finally accurately hit a model of a Valentine tank.

The plastic turret rolled to the edge of the sand table, just like the defeated Allied forces in the summer of 1941.

"Pass on my order. The original night assault plan is cancelled. Troops at all levels continue to wait in their respective positions."

"The Empire is fighting for air and sea supremacy in the Mediterranean. As long as this battle can be dragged on smoothly, we can reach Cairo sooner or later!"

"Stephanis, help me." Desert Fox's words were suddenly interrupted because a series of violent explosions suddenly sounded outside the headquarters. The veteran soldier, who was used to smelling gunpowder smoke, instantly straightened his back, and with a slight tremor in his ears, he had analyzed the source of the explosion.

"105mm howitzer, 6 seconds between salvos, and..."

"Multiple rocket launchers!"

Before the staff officers could react, Rommel had already broken open the blast-proof door.

He saw hundreds of rockets with tails of flame tearing through the darkness above his southern defense line. He had only seen this kind of overwhelming impact in battle reports on the Eastern Front in Europe.

······
Tagay region, southern defense line of El Alamein.

After nearly an hour of reconnaissance and mapping, observers from the 64th Free French Artillery Regiment finally locked onto their target, the defensive position of the 185th Italian Parachute Division.

It was a sudden olive green 7 kilometers away. Fiat trucks transporting supplies and ammunition were crowded like beetles on the back slope of the sand dunes.

"Direction 273, distance 7150, all regiments fire rapidly!"

The moment the first round of shells was fired, all the officers and men of the 64th Artillery Regiment, from the regiment commander, Major Bernard, to the grease-handed loaders, felt a surge of hot heat explode in their chests.

This is not simply the joy of victory, but a tremor that is almost like redemption.

Two years, a full eight hundred and sixty-nine days and nights.

They had not touched real French-made weapons since that humiliating summer of 1940, when they dragged their defeated remnants onto British transport ships.

The 25-pound cannons given by the British always had a condescending tone, and the instructors who spoke with a London accent would even deliberately read the shooting manual in a vague manner.

But now it was different. They stroked the French inscriptions on the breech block with their fingertips, and the pure French shooting instructions echoed in their ears.

Every 105mm shell that whizzed out was tearing apart two nightmares: one was the Italians' current defense line, and the other was the British's contemptuous sneer for months.

Loader Jacques suddenly found himself crying. He wiped his face and threw the sweat, dust and tears onto the hot barrel.

There was a line of words engraved on it with a bayonet: Greet Pétain with a cannonball!
"Fire! Keep firing! We have plenty of ammunition. Use the shells to smash those damn sissies to death!"

The first salvo of the M1936B was still whistling in the air when the loaders stuffed the second shell into the barrel, and the 105mm grenades instantly covered the enemy's position.

Despite its divisional organization, the actual strength of the 185th Parachute Division was only 1800 men, equivalent to the size of a reinforced regiment.

When the 64mm howitzers of the 105th Artillery Regiment of the Free French suddenly tore through the night sky, these paratroopers wearing black berets suffered heavy losses on the spot.

In the following half hour, artillery observers calmly corrected the coordinates and brutally covered every suspicious position with high-explosive bombs.

The surviving paratroopers huddled in the craters, stroking the lightning inscription on their standard daggers with trembling fingers. This word, which once symbolized the elite, was now fading from their armbands along with the blood.

The 1st Marine Brigade’s competitors, minus one.

Behind the main force, Major General Leclerc stared at the Italians' first line of defense. The enemy's position was crumbling under the intensive artillery fire, and the enemy's yellow and green stripes were like candles in the wind.

In this situation, a sharp light flashed in his eyes.

"Pass my order, the 501st Tank Regiment and the 1st Moroccan Marching Regiment will attack immediately! Kill all Italians who stand in our way!"

"Our next opponent is the 132nd Armored Division, allowing this group of damn fascists to see what is the First Army in Europe!"

The main armored force of the Italian Corps in North Africa is the M14/41 tank.

Compared with the T-3485, its combat weight, main gun caliber, armor-piercing capability, armor protection and engine performance are all at a disadvantage.

88 tanks vs. 129 tanks, but the advantage is on me!
······
Bourg-Arab, with the British 8th Army Headquarters.

Unlike those commanders who were keen on pushing their headquarters forward to the vicinity of the front line, Montgomery chose a more cautious position at this time, in the heart of the desert, a full 30 kilometers away from the battlefield.

This is the safest rear area on the entire front line. The complete communication network connects the air force base and the logistics center like a nerve network, allowing him to easily dispatch the entire war machine.

However, such a safe layout also hides hidden dangers.

When night falls and the radio fails due to sandstorms or interference, and the front line urgently needs to make decisions, the general sitting in the rear can only stare at the map.

"What's going on! What's going on now?!"

"What did you say? The First Brigade of the Free French deployed in the southernmost part of the country has lost contact? How could thousands of people disappear without a single word? Even if they surrendered to the enemy, there should be some movement!"

"Quick! Continue investigating. I want to know what happened in the war zone!" (End of this chapter)