Andalusia – Gibraltar FrontSeptember 20, 1940
The land smelled of dust and sweat.The heat clung to everything, even as evening fell.And there, like a stone sentinel, the Rock gleamed against the dying light.
The Leibstandarte had deployed with surgical precision.Tanks lined up in seized estates, tents pitched between olive trees, trucks unloading without pause.But they were not alone.
Around them, units of the Spanish army: regular troops, Moroccan regulares, Falangists in blue berets with eyes full of fire. A mismatched army—yet united in purpose.
"Look at them," Konrad said, leaning against the Panzer IV. "They're not just soldiers... they're crusaders."
"And what about us?" Ernst asked.
"That depends on what we do tomorrow," Falk replied.
At the command post, the air was thick with maps, tobacco, and tension.Some spoke German. Others Spanish. All spoke war.
Sepp Dietrich, uniform flawless, stared at the map without blinking.Beside him, Albrecht, jacket half unbuttoned and voice always composed, translated, noted, issued orders.
"The Rock isn't just stone. It's a symbol. If we take it, we control the strait. We shake the world," Dietrich said, turning to the Spanish officers.
The Spanish commander—a Galician colonel with a stern gaze—nodded:
"Artillery is in position. The Falange and the regulares will storm La Línea's trenches. Your Panzers will lead the armored thrust. Luftwaffe will follow once anti-air is neutralized."
"Understood," said Dietrich.
"No improvisation," Albrecht added, looking straight at Falk from across the room. "This time, everything must go clean."
That night, the camp exhaled an artificial calm.
The Spanish sang beneath the stars. The Germans cleaned weapons in silence. Some shared cigarettes. Others stared at the sky, as if waiting for a signal.
Falk walked among the Panzers when he heard footsteps.It was Dietrich.
"Are you ready, Oberscharführer?"
"I will be," Falk replied.
"Your section's on the left flank. The tunnels are mined, but we need constant pressure."
Falk nodded. Dietrich lingered a moment longer.
"We're not just here for Germany. We're here for the idea. For a new order."
"And for the ones still alive," Falk added quietly.
Dietrich smiled, briefly."That too."
Later, a young Falangist approached. Barely twenty, a poet's face and a zealot's eyes.
"You fought in France, sir?"
"Yes."
"What was it like?"
"Like what you'll see tomorrow. Just in a different language."
Falk offered him a cigarette.The boy took it, hand trembling slightly.
"If you survive... you'll know if it's worth remembering."
Above, Gibraltar's spotlights swept across the sky like blades.
And among Spaniards and Germans...no one slept.They were only waiting for the moment silence would break—for the last time