The sun was hard over the Aragonese hills.
In the early morning haze, armored trucks rose dust into the air
Major Étienne Moreau stood beside the turret of a Renault AMC-34, binoculars in hand, watching the terrain.
The land was dry, fractured like the way Republic fought.
Renaud approached with a rolled map and two steaming cups of bitter black coffee.
"Barbastro's militia units are dug in around the southern ridgeline. The Nationalists are expected to move in from the Monzón road by nightfall. Intel says two thousand at most mostly Falangist volunteers and elements of the Spanish Legion."
Moreau sipped from the tin cup. "And we ready?"
"Yes. Two thousand eight hundred. One hundred ten light armor. Thirty-six mountain infantry teams, twenty-four PAP recon squads. Six batteries of mobile artillery. And three companies from the 5th Night Company rotating in behind the main line."
Moreau nodded. "Good ground for maneuver."
"No trenches?" Renaud asked, knowing the answer.
