The ground near Alagón had been destroyed by weeks of movement.
What had once been cobbled streets and quiet alleys was now a group of barricades, sandbags, and broken buildings used for cover.
French armor tried to roll forward that morning three light tanks backed by infantry but the road buckled beneath the first, a mine exploding under its left tread.
The tank lurched sideways, its hatch flung open as the crew scrambled out.
Small-arms fire cracked from a church bell tower.
"Up top!" someone shouted.
A French soldier aimed a grenade launcher, fired.
The bell tower burst into dust.
Two bodies tumbled with the bricks.
Captain Luc Marchand crouched behind a corner, radio pressed to his ear.
"Snipers north quadrant. We're getting hit from dug-in civvies"
"Orders?" asked his second.
"We pull back. This isn't worth the armor we're burning."
They retreated two blocks and regrouped.
In a burnt café, a lieutenant watched the retreat and spat into the ashes.
