Gibraltar – September 21, 1940
The order came at 04:00.And at 04:01, Gibraltar stopped sleeping.
Spanish artillery roared from La Línea. The explosions were the morning's music. In seconds, the sky lit up like a fire-drenched dawn. The first British positions had no time to react with order—only instinct.
The Leibstandarte advanced in blind column, Panzers carving a path through trenches. On each side, Falangists ran forward with bayonets and flags, shouting with rage and faith.War was spoken in two languages… but it sounded the same.
"Zone one secured!" Helmut reported.
"Keep advancing. Close fire," Falk ordered.
At 05:17, the Panzer IV was hit by an anti-tank shell.
"Direct hit!" Ernst shouted.
The turret shook. Lights flickered and died. Falk felt a dull thud in his skull.
"Engine?"
"Still alive," Lukas replied. "We're burned… but intact."
"Then we move."
Konrad, bleeding from his forehead, reloaded in silence.The gun fired again.
The casualties were terrible.Two Falangist sections were buried under shrapnel. Several Panzers were knocked out. Amid the rubble, Germans and Spaniards covered each other.There were no frontiers, only trenches.
A young Spaniard screamed as his lieutenant fell. A German soldier threw him to the ground, saving him from the next burst. They didn't exchange names.Just fire. Breath. And shared mud.
At 09:12, Gibraltar fell.
The British flag was lowered.And over the Rock flew two banners:the swastika… and the yoke and arrows.
Dietrich arrived in a light vehicle. He observed in silence. He asked no questions. He didn't need maps.
Albrecht approached Falk.
"We're regrouping. France."
"France?"
"Yes. Quiet. Repairs. Training. Whatever comes next, will come."
Falk nodded. He looked at the tank, still smoking.Then at the ground, where the bodies lay beneath tarps.
That night, there was no celebration.
Falk sat alone, slowly cleaning his helmet.Konrad slept. Ernst said nothing. Lukas drank in silence. Helmut fixed the radio, taking his time.
In the distance, a Falangist sang something low. Without force. Without triumph.A prayer without faith. A goodbye without a name.
The Rock had fallen.But deep in each chest… something still weighed heavy.
And it wasn't fear.
It was the certainty that, after this, no one would ever be the same again.