At first, they thought it was thunder.
The low rumble rolled over the Aragonese hills at dawn, too steady to be artillery, too distant to be armor.
Renaud stepped out of the forward command tent, squinting against the rising light.
The sun hadn't fully breached the horizon.
Then the sky cracked.
Black shapes dropped from above fast, angular.
Stuka dive bombers.
He didn't even have time to shout before the first siren wailed.
"Airstrike! Get down!"
The bombs hit a moment later, one after another, not on frontlines or staging posts but on the French artillery convoy still going through the hills south of Barbastro.
Explosions tore into soft vehicles.
One 75mm cannon was lifted into the air like a toy.
Bodies flung against rock.
Screams burst through the dust.
Flames followed.
Moreau was already running, hand on his sidearm, shouting orders.
"Move them! Split columns into tree cover....no more than five per group!"
Shells cratered the ridgeline behind them.
