The sea was black glass, rolling under a bruised sky. Rain came in slanting curtains, stinging the men packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the landing craft.
The diesel engine growled like an animal caged beneath steel, its breath mixing with salt and fear.
Private Miller gripped his Garand rifle until his knuckles went white. He could barely hear the sergeant over the roar.
"Two minutes! Check your gear! Keep your heads low when that ramp drops!"
Somewhere out there, beyond the gray haze, Southern Spain waited. Gibraltar's shadow rising like the fortress of the world itself.
The plan was simple: land, seize the beachhead, push inland. But plans died fast once the bullets started flying.
And fly they did.
Tracers tore the horizon, amber and green, deliberate and spaced. Someone whispered,
"They're already sighting us."
Gunfire cut through the mist, red lines whipping across the water.
A moment later came the sound, the deep, rolling scream of MG-38Es opening up from the cliffs.
