The road to Jaca was lined with pine trees.
French infantry moved down it in quiet columns, boots landing in unison, rifles kept low.
Ahead, the town stood with shutters closed, windows covered, flags stripped down to bare rope.
It hadn't been held long, but it had been held hard enough for bullet scars to stay on walls, enough for locals to flinch at noise.
Captain Deval's men advanced behind two light tanks, AMR-33s.
The Nationalist checkpoint at the edge of town had been abandoned.
One helmet lay in the dirt, dusted with red clay.
They reached the plaza by mid-afternoon.
The city hall door creaked open.
An old man stepped out slowly, a folded piece of cloth in his hands.
He didn't look at the tank, didn't flinch at the rifles.
"You're French?" he asked.
Deval nodded. "Second Mechanized. Aragon Line."
The man handed him the folded cloth.
It was the tricolor of the old Republic, worn thin, but whole.
"I buried it under the stairs. Thought it might matter again."
