The mist hung low over the Monte de la Peña. Dawn hadn't broken yet, but the Francoist lines were already awake.
The sound of shovels scraping into rock rang up and down the ridge.
Men packed sandbags into makeshift shield.
If they came, they'd come from there.
Captain Domínguez wiped sweat from his brow. "Artillery on the west slope, now. We don't get second chances."
A conscript hesitated beside him. "But we've only got four shells."
Domínguez turned. "Then you make every one sing like opera."
Below them noise came.
Not a single engine, many.
Rolling.
One soldier whispered, "That's armor."
The captain didn't speak.
He just stared into the haze and reached for his binoculars.
Minutes passed.
Then the French emerged.
Not in a rush.
Not even spread out.
They advanced like they'd done it a hundred times.
Trucks in formation, infantry dismounting in synchronized groups, light tanks flanking behind cover.
No shouting.
No rush.
