The stone corridor of the French field HQ in Teruel rang with slow, deliberate footsteps.
Major Moreau walked with a slight limp, his left side still wrapped in tight bandages, a cane in his hand.
But he walked.
And every soldier in the hallway stood a little straighter as he passed.
Captain Renaud met him near the tactical room.
"You're supposed to be in bed for another week."
Moreau gave a tired smile.
"Doctors deal in flesh. I deal in war."
"You're bleeding through the bandages."
Moreau looked down briefly. "Then someone fetch me another shirt."
Inside the briefing chamber, maps were spread out, red pins scattered like wounds across Spain.
The room fell silent as Moreau entered.
Officers stood.
Even the Soviets rose who recently joined with them for further cooperation.
"Sit," Moreau said, lowering himself into a chair.
"We've wasted enough time."
Renaud stepped beside him.
