The roar of tank engines rang through the foothills west of Barbastro before the scouts even confirmed the route.
Moreau's sudden new orders was simple.
Speed without fragmentation.
The tanks would break the crust, the infantry would seize the core, and engineers would lock it down before the smoke even cleared.
At 0700, the 8th Armored Division surged forward.
Captain Leclerc stood in his command hatch, goggles up, headset crackling with squad movements.
"Thirty seconds to ridge," his gunner said.
"Don't wait for their morale to break," Leclerc said. "Just drive through it."
When they reached the ridge, they found a Nationalist trench barely manned, guns unmanned, crews scattered across dirt and concrete.
The moment they saw the tanks, half dropped their weapons.
The other half tried to run.
Most didn't make it.
"Left line clear," the driver called out.
"Confirm and press," Leclerc replied.
Behind them, mechanized infantry trucks appeared like clockwork.
