The sound of machines and shouts filled the damaged taxiways of Madrid Airport.
German engineering corps were doing their best to restore the runway—or at least make it partly usable again.
They had to work with the few tools they had brought, and whatever they could salvage from the airport, working tirelessly under the pouring rain and the night sky.
Yet all their efforts would be worthless if they couldn't hold the airport. The engineers tried to ignore the gunfire and the distant explosions, but their minds raced with every blast.
A large explosion echoed in the distance, a fireball rising into the sky. The men stopped their work for a moment, subconsciously watching it before clenching their teeth and returning to their tasks.
Five minutes earlier
Paul threw himself to the side as an artillery shell exploded only meters from his previous position, sending cement and dirt into the air.
"Fuck," he muttered, grabbing his rifle again and firing at the incoming wave of Spaniards.
"Luckily no tanks—seems like von Thoma is keeping them busy!" Student shouted, arriving next to him while crouching.
Student said something inaudible as the machine gunner beside them opened fire again, joining the other MG positions hastily established in the chaos.
Soldiers on both sides fell—man after man bleeding out, covering the ground in crimson.
A young German soldier stumbled toward Paul, blood spurting from a wound in his chest. Paul caught him and lowered him gently to the ground, opening his mouth to say something—but then stopped.
The lifeless eyes staring back at him answered every question he could have asked.
Paul's gaze lingered on the soldier for a moment too long—too long for the battlefield.
He collected himself when he saw a new wave of Spanish soldiers charging at them—this one even larger than the first.
Their boots trampled the bodies of their fallen comrades as they fired while running toward the German positions.
Soldiers all around Student and Paul fell, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of gunfire. A bullet struck Paul's shoulder, but he did not cry out. He ignored the wound, his uniform now marked with even more crimson.
Student watched him for a moment before shouting, "We have to do it now!"
"Are you sure?" Paul shouted back, skeptical.
"We have no other choice. We either die trying—or win," Student said seriously. "Do you agree?"
"I agree," Paul answered after a brief moment of deliberation.
Paul turned and gave a deliberate, sharp nod to a group of soldiers. They ran through the gunfire toward a parked truck hidden under a tarp. They ripped the tarp away and started the engine. The truck roared to life and rolled toward the advancing Spanish horde, gaining speed with every second.
When it was close enough, the driver opened the door and jumped out.
The Spanish soldiers dodged the incoming truck, thinking themselves safe—until gunfire suddenly erupted from all German positions. But they weren't firing at the Spaniards—they were firing at the truck.
A Spanish officer watched it roll past him, his eyes catching on the barrels loaded in the back. Realization struck.
He turned and shouted something—but a blinding explosion engulfed him and everyone nearby.
A firestorm consumed anyone within twenty meters, and a massive fireball rose into the night sky.
The strike hit the Spaniards hard, shattering their morale and boosting that of their enemies.
The newly invigorated German soldiers fought even more fiercely, their shots seeming truer, their losses fewer.
After another half hour, the battle was over. The Spaniards signaled their retreat—beaten, no, decimated—as they fled in shame.
Paul and Student breathed a sigh of relief. The Spanish withdrawal was vital to their plan, and it hadn't been guaranteed, even after their surprise attack. They had still been numerically superior, after all.
Student smiled faintly, the relief evident on his face.
"Although fuel is vital at this stage of the campaign, we did the right thing," Student said, reassuring Paul—and perhaps himself.
"It's only a temporary victory. With fewer fuel reserves, the efficiency of the air bridge will be lower," Paul said. "But I agree with you—we would have lost without it."
The sound of an engine made both men look up.
A military truck rolled toward them, splashing through puddles. A soldier jumped out and ran up, saluting sharply.
"Sirs! Major Lang sent me to inform you that the west gate was held. The Spanish attack has been successfully repelled."
"Good," Paul said, exchanging a look with Student.
"Let's visit the engineers," Student suggested.
They took the Spanish truck from the messenger, ordering their men to hold the gate, bringing only a few soldiers with them for protection.
Soon, they arrived at the runway, where a grumpy, bearded soldier greeted them with a salute.
"Oberst. Major."
"How's the progress?" Student asked, scanning the surroundings.
"Some of the later sections aren't repairable with our tools, but we managed to restore most of the main strip—somewhat," the soldier replied, scratching his head.
"Somewhat?" Paul asked skeptically. "Can planes land or not?"
After a short pause, the man replied, "They can—but their braking distance shouldn't be too long, or else…"
"Fine. We have good pilots," Student said, smiling faintly. "Good work, soldier."
The man nodded. "Thank you, Herr Oberst."
Paul and Student then drove straight to the control tower.
"Heinrich? Kurt? Is that you?" a voice came through the long-range radio.
"It is, General," Paul answered.
"Thank God. How is the operation going?" Sperrle asked.
"We managed to repel the Spanish assault—on both ground and air," Student replied proudly.
"Very good. How many men did we lose?" Sperrle asked.
"We don't have a final count yet… but—many," Paul answered, his voice colder on the last word.
Silence filled the control tower for a moment before Sperrle spoke again.
"I understand. Can I send you reinforcements?"
"You can. The engineers have restored the runway—somewhat," Student replied.
"Excellent. The first transports will depart in five minutes. Everything is going according to plan. Oberst von Thoma has managed to pierce parts of the Spanish lines, though the resistance is as fierce as we anticipated. We need you to support him as soon as possible," Sperrle said.
"We understand," Paul answered. "We'll reinforce our ranks, fortify our positions, and then move out for the encirclement."
"Good work, gentlemen," Sperrle said, ending the transmission.
Half an hour later, the first transport planes loomed on the horizon, descending toward the runway of Madrid Airport. Fresh, invigorated men disembarked, followed by crates of artillery and machine guns.
Plane after plane landed, bolstering their ranks and firepower further and further. The Spanish were powerless. They launched several desperate assaults—all ending in failure. The reinforced, deeply entrenched Germans had become a wall the enemy could not penetrate—and that wall grew thicker with every passing minute.
Paul and Student watched it all from the windows of the control tower, standing there until the first streaks of sunlight tore through the night sky.
"It's November now," Student said, watching the dawn. "Our operation has officially succeeded."
Paul didn't answer. He only watched the sunrise with his usual, stoic eyes.
"Not yet," he said after a moment.
"What?" Student asked, confused.
"It hasn't succeeded yet." Paul turned toward him. "It will have succeeded when every part of this city is in our hands. Right now, we only hold a large patch of concrete—a mere fraction of what we must conquer."
"Yes, that's true," Student admitted. "But we've laid a stepping stone so big, it will change the course of this war entirely."
Paul nodded slowly, then looked down at his watch.
"Have Oberst von Thoma's tanks penetrated the first line?" Paul asked one of the soldiers in the control room.
The man checked his notes and replied, "Oberst von Thoma broke through the first line twenty minutes ago, sir."
Paul looked at Student while speaking. "Tell him—and High Command—that we'll support him within an hour."
"You think they've realized it?" Student asked.
"No," Paul said firmly. "Their commander—whoever he is—isn't competent. He's responded poorly to everything we've thrown at him. I don't believe he sees it."
Both men turned back toward the window, watching the sunrise—treasuring the small fragment of peace they had fought for.
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