World War II: Starting with the defeat of the Desert Fox

The town of Hafat is located on the eastern coast of the Gulf of Suez, and its Arabic name means "edge of the desert".

It is a town that was born from the Red Sea oil fields: first workers came to work here, and soon they brought their families. As the population grew, shops, markets and entertainment gradually appeared.

As the sun set, 57-year-old Wells dragged his weary body back to his small villa. He plopped down in a rocking chair in front of the house, ignoring the grime on his hands, took out a pipe from his pocket, filled it with tobacco with trembling fingers, lit it, and puffed away.

He needed to think carefully about what to say so that his wife Emma inside the house wouldn't worry.

Through the smoke, Wells cast his gaze over the houses of the low-lying town and into the desert.

There stood a few dilapidated drilling rigs standing alone, while the nearby oil refinery's chimneys emitted not a trace of smoke.

The huge oil company had only a few dozen elderly and infirm employees slowly maintaining the equipment, and the town's population was constantly moving out, creating a desolate and dilapidated scene.

"What happened?" Wells muttered to himself. "Why did this happen?"

But he knew in his heart that it was all because of the war.

This is somewhat counterintuitive. After the outbreak of war, oil prices skyrocketed several times over, and oil companies should have made a fortune, but instead, they were struggling to survive and on the verge of bankruptcy.

Wells leaned back, letting the rocking chair sway gently with inertia; he was used to organizing his thoughts in this state.

All of this is unreasonable, but it is "common sense" in British-controlled areas.

Oil giants bribed lawmakers to pass a bill that, under the pretext of "wartime control" and "uniform military standards," allocated all quotas and refining rights to the giants.

As a result, small companies like Red Sea Oil, even if they have refineries that can produce better refined oil, are forced to shut down because they lack the authority to do so, and can only sell their oil at low prices to Shell and Anglo-Egyptian companies.

Wells protested, "Since you made this decision, didn't you consider that I might choose to go it alone? I'll refine my own oil and find my own markets, and nobody will interfere with me!"

However, the British Petroleum Authority in Egypt gave a clear response:

"No, Mr. Wells, you can't do that."

"According to the wartime oil control regulations, you can only sell oil to Britain, because our army urgently needs oil for combat."

"If you violate this rule, we have reason to believe you have betrayed the country and will take further action!"

Therefore, Wells could only wait for the oil giants to strangle him.

Wells exhaled a long puff of smoke and squeezed out a sentence through gritted teeth: "Fuck England, fuck the war, fuck the war regulations!"

An Austin car approached from a distance, slowed down, and finally stopped in front of Wells.

(The image above shows Austin Motors, a luxury brand at the time.)

Wells' heart skipped a beat. This was the car of Anderson, Shell's legal counsel, who had discussed the acquisition with Wells more than once.

"Hi, Mr. Wells, we meet again!" Anderson, dressed in a black suit, got out of the car, put on his top hat, picked up his briefcase, and greeted Wells warmly.

Wells just grunted and put his pipe back in his mouth.

Anderson ignored Wells's rudeness. He walked up to Wells, confident and with a hint of provocation in his voice: "How's the acquisition going?"

Wells didn't even lift his eyelids:

"I'm considering it, Anderson."

"If you're willing, then wait. I don't mind!"

"However, I must warn you, I will not provide you with water or food."

This was Wells's style; when he was angry, he usually didn't resort to cursing, but rather cold sarcasm.

Anderson smiled slightly, looked around, and moved closer:

"We know what you're doing, Mr. Wells."

"Your son Thorne is lobbying for direct military supplies in Bog Arab."

"But I can guarantee you won't succeed, and you know why."

Wells fell silent.

He knew Anderson was telling the truth; the oil giants had long since bribed their way through everything.

The same message came back from Thorne; he couldn't even get a meeting with Montgomery.

More importantly, he shouldn't have had any hope for Thorne.

"Please, Wells," Anderson added, pressing on.

"Think about the current situation."

"The Germans are attacking our lines, and they are making rapid progress."

"What if the El Alamein Line can't hold off the German attack? Our troops will be driven into the sea."

He paused, then added:

"Think about what will happen then?"

"That could be another Dunkirk evacuation."

"Then the Germans will take over this place, and all your oil wells, real estate, licenses, permits, and so on will be worthless."

Wells held the pipe up for a long time without putting it down.

This is indeed happening, and no one can guarantee that the British army can stop the Germans.

Finally, Anderson took a document from his briefcase and handed it to Wells:

"Sign it, I'm serious. I've secured an extra £5 for you, so you'll have £32."

"After deducting loans, borrowings, and unpaid wages for workers, you will still receive £3 in the end."

"Take this money and get out of here. Take your family and end this nightmare forever. You can live happily ever after!"

Wells was tempted, especially by the last sentence; he truly wanted to escape all of this.

However, he also knew that the oil company's license and Egypt's mining permit alone were worth £40.

But what can we do?

Just then, a dilapidated Ford drove along the road amidst smoke and engine noise.

(The image above shows a low-cost V8 car launched by Ford in 1932, aimed at low- and middle-income people, and was known as the "poor man's grocery car")

Wells withdrew his outstretched hand.

That's Thorne's car; Thorne is back.

Anderson smiled, his eyes filled with confidence; he believed nothing would change.

It was indeed Thorne who arrived. He looked exhausted and was covered in dust. He sneezed as he got out of the car.

The military camp is more than 100 kilometers away from the Red Sea oil field, and the two-hour drive is not easy.

"Hi, Anderson." Thorne shook hands with Anderson before hugging his father, Wells.

Wells' heart sank instantly.

Thorne used to angrily chase Anderson away whenever he saw him, but now he was so calm.

Wells seemed to understand something.

"I'm so stupid," he thought, "to still have any expectations of Thorne."

Even in the most difficult times, Thorne was only concerned with which year's wine would be worthy of his "status" so he could show off to his cronies in the bar; he maintained his dignity until the very last moment.

With a sigh, Wells turned to Anderson: "32 pounds, I hope it arrives in my account immediately!"

"No problem." Anderson smiled victoriously.

"What? £32?" Thorne asked.

"The acquisition price," Anderson said smugly. "I secured £5 for you, no small sum, right?"

As he spoke, he handed the contract and pen to Wells.

However, Thorne pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it in front of Anderson.

"I think you've misunderstood, Mr. Anderson," Thorne said. "The company isn't for sale!"

Anderson was instantly stunned: "This, this is impossible!"

But he clearly saw Montgomery's signature and the military seal on the document.

Wells paused, then abruptly stood up, carefully snatched the document from Thorne's hand, glanced at it, and looked at Thorne excitedly:

"You, you..."

"You did Thorne, you secured the quota."

"Unbelievable, we're saved!"

Overwhelmed with excitement and elation, his hand holding the document trembled involuntarily.