July 30th, 1940
Libya (Tripolitania) - The French vanguards are approaching Pilastrino, along the banks of the oued Bei-el-Chebir. Resistance is sporadic. The French motorized horsemen do not hesitate to bypass the defenders to rush forward as quickly as possible. The components of the 16th BLM and the Brigade de Chars de Tunisie (1st, 2nd, 3rd and 4th RCA, 61st, 62nd and 65th BCC) even (unofficially...) organize a real stage race. Are we not in July, the season of the Tour de France!
.........
On the coast, the few Breguet 693/5 moved in mid-July join the fray.
- Solitaire 6 to everyone, possible target at 11 o'clock, a column of soldiers with trucks.
- From Solitaire 1, I see it. To everyone, we descend to 100 meters, echelon refused by the left, for 90° turn on target at my signal, with formation in line.
An approach that has become classic at the 54th, whose two groups now form a single one, even reinforced by the men and planes of GBA II/35! The eleven other pilots confirm the order placidly, and the whole formation approaches the ground. They could go even lower, if the heat of this month of July in the middle of the Libyan coastal desert did not obstruct the view. But it is not too necessary either: the enemy flak is almost absent, quite a change compared to the French Campaign. While giving the signal for the turn, Captain Desclerc is busy observing the Italian column retreating eastward. He stares at the trucks and the men. Suddenly an expletive resounds in the cabin, while his finger pushes the radio button to contact the eleven planes which were now heading straight for their target, bomb hatches open. "Solitaire 1 to all, hold your fire! There are plenty of civilians, target discrimination impossible!"
The twelve twin-engines whiz by over the congested road, where pedestrians throw themselves to the ground in despair at the terrifying sight. The worst for them does not happen, however, and they get up one by one...
- Captain, they are Italians!
- So what? We have all seen or experienced the atrocities of the Stuka on our own columns of refugees, we are not going to do the same!
- Well said, captain!
- Solitaire 1 to everyone, we take the initial course again, echelon refused on the right, altitude 300 meters.
It is not long before a new shout is heard in the headphones: "Solitaire 3 to everyone, motorized military column at 2 o'clock!" In fact, another detachment appears, driving in the opposite direction to the first one, so more likely reinforcements than refugees! Desclerc then resumes his instructions, adding a fire order at his signal. The ballet of the planes starts again, a graceful figure in the sky, if it were not synonymous with death.
Through his armored windshield, Desclerc sees the vehicles and the uniforms of the men coming out of them, some of them getting into firing position. The signal to fire instinctively comes out of his mouth, and on the ground, it is hell. Except for the planes with anti-aircraft equipment in front of them, only the machine guns are spitting, the 20 mm guns are normally kept in reserve for another occasion, the bombs should be enough. But the habit acquired in France, where there was always Flak, is tenacious, and the shells are fired before the bombs.
This time, the planes are not content to spread fear. Men are mowed down by machine guns, trucks and rare light armoured vehicles explode under the shells, then the crash of explosions of 50 kg bombs... In a few seconds, the group of reinforcements is annihilated, or almost! Contrary to the habits acquired since three months, Desclerc turns his
squadron to 180° for a new pass with his guns, the anti-aircraft pieces on the ground being not very numerous and not very effective, if they were not destroyed. Joy fromthe pilots who can observe their work well done and put another layer on top!
Nevertheless, the small arms of the infantry and some machine guns are able to do some damage, and two of the planes leave with difficulty, not to mention a slightly wounded pilot, who is able to bring his whole plane back to El Aouïna.
On the ground, it is the silence after the battles, punctuated by cries and tears of the wounded. Smells of cordite, blood, urine, guts and vomit. The few survivors look at this spectacle of desolation, stunned. The driver of the only truck that remained intact clutches his steering wheel with both both hands, unable to move, probably unable to believe in his luck.
Soon the long line of refugees approaches, preceded by some soldiers. They are going to lend a hand to the dazed men. At the head of the convoy, a few civilian vehicles, including a Lancia Lambda. At the back of the overloaded car, two teenagers are indignant, next to an imperturbable grandfather with a sad look in his eyes.
- It's awful, the French have massacred everyone!
- It's despicable, you murderers!
- Calm down, children. They are soldiers who have done their duty to kill other soldiers... They are not murderers, because they spared us on their first pass.
- Oh, don't you think they missed us instead?
- Missed? Look what they did to the Camicie Nere! [The old man spits on the ground towards towards the remains of the column, whose uniforms he recognized]. Not one standing! No, they know their job, those Frenchmen, and believe me, you can thank them for having let us keep our lives!
- But they are enemies, after all!
- Enemies? Santa Madonna, I think that our worst enemy is in Rome!