The mountain wind howled over Teruel like the groaning of a dying man.
Inside a commandeered monastery turned field hospital, men moaned on stretchers lined against stone walls.
A kerosene lamp flickered as Major Moreau lay semi-conscious, sweat-soaked and pale, his bandaged side bleeding through.
"Pressure's dropping again," the field doctor muttered.
"We need to keep him under or he'll tear the stitches."
Captain Renaud leaned over the table, his face worn from smoke and sleepless nights.
"You're sure it didn't hit the lung?"
The doctor glanced up.
"He's lucky. The shrapnel missed by millimeters. But if infection sets in, rank or luck won't matter."
Renaud exhaled.
"Then he needs to be back on his feet before the men start doubting there's still a spine to this war."
Near Zaragoza, the German forward HQ operated from a half-demolished farmhouse.
General Heinz Guderian stood over a map table, illuminated by a single desk lamp.
Flies buzzed over bloodstained boots.
