Unfortunately for the Libyans, at that moment the man who was in charge of defending the Cyrenaica was neither brave nor equal to the task of commanding a large force. The proof of that was in front of him. Two large red arrows, one coming from the east along the coastal road, one coming from the south along the pipeline that ran from Sarir to Tobruk, were converging on Tobruk. Libyan units, marked in blue, were scattered about in an almost haphazard manner. Only along the coastal road itself, where units of the regular Libyan army had been posted, was the Egyptian advance slow. Already the Egyptian commander advancing along the coastal road had had to commit his second-echelon unit in order to maintain the pressure.
The real danger was in the south. The Libyan forces deployed to the southeast of Tobruk, equal to a division, had been destroyed. The Egyptian forces advancing from Al Haira had easily penetrated the thin defensive belt the Libyans had thrown up, then turned north for Tobruk. Not satisfied with bypassing the Libyan units that had survived the initial assault and letting them wither on the vine, the Egyptians had turned on those Libyan units isolated by the penetration and systematically annihilated them. This had taken them the better part of the day, giving the Libyans time to shift their reserve to Al Adam and prepare to face the new threat from the south. Earlier in the day Uvarov had considered that the destruction of Libyan units was the Egyptians' real objective. Since they were on a punitive raid, the destruction of a Libyan division would be more than enough to teach their neighbor a lesson. If that was their true purpose, once they were finished, the Egyptians would withdraw. That theory, however, fell through when it was reported that the Egyptians were repositioning units in preparation for continuation of their drive north.
So once again all focus turned to Tobruk, the last major target in eastern Cyrenaica of any value left in Libyan hands. fabal al Awaynat in the south, where the Libyan, Egyptian, and Sudanese borders met, had fallen on the first day to a motorized unit. Al Khofra, in central Cyrenaica, fell the second day to an airborne assault. Tobruk was next. Sitting on his stool, his eyes riveted to the map, Uvarov studied the situation, attempting to picture how it would look twelve hours, twenty-four hours, and forty-eight hours ahead. There was no need to go beyond forty-eight hours. If the performance of the Libyan forces held true to form, Tobruk would have long since been in Egyptian hands. By morning, Egyptian recon units would be as far north as Bir Hakeim and the escarpment south of Al Adam. An assault on the Libyan defenses along that escarpment could come as early as tomorrow afternoon, perhaps even tonight.
It was then, when the Egyptian forces were heavily involved with either penetrating or bypassing the Libyan forces defending Tobruk, that they would be most vulnerable to counterattack. A tank-heavy attack force, swinging south of Bir Hakeim into the flank of the Egyptian forces attacking Tobruk, would be devastating. Unfortunately, the Libyans no longer had the forces capable of making such a maneuver. Uvarov's Soviet tank corps was the only major tank formation not committed in battle. Uvarov, however, quickly dismissed that option. Even if he had the freedom to do so, which he didn't, he would not. There was no doubt in his mind that once his tank corps was committed to battle, it would only be a matter of time before American forces in the area were brought to bear. While the American ground forces to the east were a major consideration, one he did not take lightly, they were only part of the equation. Though it was out of sight, he could feel the presence of the 6th Fleet just over the horizon to the north. Attack aircraft and gunfire from the American battleships would have no trouble closing down the coastal road wherever and whenever they wanted to. It was his line of communication running south through Sudan and Ethiopia, over the Indian Ocean to Iran, and overland to the Soviet Union, however, that caused him his greatest concern. It was long, fragile, and easily broken at any point.
For a moment, he considered not even mentioning that possibility in his nightly report to STAVKA. To do so, he thought, might give some amateur strategist sitting in the basement of the Kremlin the idea that we could actually pull it off and win. Not to address it, however, would serve no purpose. A bright young staff officer at STAVKA, analyzing the information provided by the North African Front, would see the same possibility. If that happened, STAVKA would wonder why Uvarov hadn't seen such a maneuver and addressed it, bringing his abilities as a commander into question. No, he thought, better to discuss the matter, as pointless as it is, and explain, in clear and unemotional terms, why we shouldn't.
The decision made, Uvarov stood up and stretched. He looked at the clock, then turned to the operations duty officer. "How long before you are ready with the daily operations report?"
The young major stood up and came around his small field desk to where the general stood. When he reached Uvarov, he held out a clipboard to which the draft report was attached. "Sir, with the exception of your portion of the report, it is finished and ready for your review and approval."
Uvarov took the clipboard in his free hand and glanced at the first page. "Very good. Perhaps we shall get it in on time tonight." When he said that, he winked at the major. The major smiled. Uvarov always waited until the last possible minute to add his comments. This practice caused a great deal of distress for the poor duty officer, who had to scramble to submit the report on time. Uvarov's chief of staff, a stickler for punctuality, would tolerate no excuse for late reports.
Satisfied with what he saw, Uvarov handed the major his empty cup and asked if there was someone who could possibly find some hot tea. The major responded that there was a kettle of hot water ready and waiting. As he turned to leave, the major paused, then turned back to the general. "One more thing, Comrade General. Major Neboatov is here to see you."
Uvarov looked at the major quizzically. The major reminded him that he had requested to see the senior surviving advisor from the destroyed Libyan division. Neboatov was that man. Remembering the request, Uvarov shook his head and asked the major to show Neboatov in. When the major left, Uvarov sat back down onto the camp stool, balanced the clipboard on his right leg, and began to write. He was still writing when he heard footsteps come pounding up behind, then around him. The man he had asked to see stopped midway between the map board on the wall and Uvarov, brought his heels together, and shouted, "Major Neboatov reporting as ordered, Comrade General."
The sudden disturbance and the harsh emphasis on the words "as ordered" surprised Uvarov. Prepared to jump up and bark at the impetuous major who had disturbed his train of thought, Uvarov looked up, then instantly changed his mind. Uvarov was shocked by the apparition before him. For a moment he studied the man who stood there at attention and saluting. Neboatov looked like hell. He had no hat. His hair was dirty and greasy, with clumps and strands sticking out in all directions. His face was covered with dirt and grime — the only clean parts were two white circles around his eyes where his desert goggles had been. His uniform was splotched with alternating patches of oil stains, dirt, and dried blood. What gear he had was arranged properly but just as dirty.
Regaining his thoughts, Uvarov signaled a soldier to bring Neboatov a chair and invited him to sit. Still stiff and formal, Neboatov thanked Uvarov and seated himself, using only the front three inches of the chair and maintaining a ramrod-straight posture. Inquiring about the bloodstains, Uvarov asked if Neboatov was wounded. Dryly, and making no effort to hide his sarcasm, Neboatov responded that no, he wasn't wounded, the blood belonged to his driver, adding that he was sorry he hadn't had the time to finish picking the man's brains off his tunic before reporting to the general.