Spain — September 1940
The convoy crossed the border at Irún at dawn.There were no ceremonies. Just formal salutes and a red-and-black flag fluttering above an improvised military checkpoint.Spain was no longer neutral. Though it had not yet declared it to the world, it now marched with the Axis.
"This isn't the Eastern Front," Lukas said, peering through the hatch. "But it doesn't feel like rest either."
The landscape shifted every hour. Dusty roads, silent villages, young men in blue berets raising their arms as the trucks passed. The Leibstandarte advanced southward with a mixture of discretion and solemnity.What lay ahead wasn't just a campaign—it was a symbol.
Outside Burgos, the convoy stopped to refuel. That's where they saw them for the first time.
Young Spaniards in blue uniforms, tight shirts, crossed belts, broad leather straps, and eyes like stone. They carried Mauser rifles and marched in perfect formation. On their sleeves, the yoke and arrows. In their voices, the echo of another revolution.
"Falangists," Helmut said.
"And those?" Ernst asked, curious.
"Not regular soldiers. Militants. Politicians with weapons," Falk replied.
But he didn't say it with contempt.
The Spaniards looked at them with equal respect. Some spoke German. Others didn't need to. A glance, a salute, the crossing of flags said enough.
One of them—a young lieutenant with a scar on his cheek and a calm tone—approached.
"Welcome to our land. Here, we are not neutral. Here, there is hunger for justice."
Falk nodded. He offered his hand.
"Here, there is war."
"And a cause," the falangist replied.
They didn't speak much. They shared bitter coffee and a wrinkled map.On it, the objective was clear: Gibraltar.
By nightfall, the convoy rolled on again.
"What do you make of them?" Lukas asked.
"They're different. They don't fight for orders. They fight for an idea," Konrad said from the rear, already recovering, though still not lifting heavy loads.
Falk looked up at the sky."That can be the best thing… or the most dangerous."
The sun sank into the Andalusian horizon.
And just beyond, past the shoreline—the Rock awaited.