[b]Port Said, Egypt[/b]

Francisco de le Cal Delgado stared southwards, the rumble of the Spanish naval guns carrying easily down the length of the Suez Canal to the mass of Spanish transport ships waiting their turn to enter the Canal. His young face was eager and expectant, his ill fitting uniform slightly to small for his muscular frame, the buttons on his chest straining again the threadbare fabric. The shoulder flag was hastily sown on, the "109" not quite covering the older unit designation. Beneath it, small enough to cause barely a glance was a flag, half Spain, half Argentina. Over them both, curving with the edge of the uniforms shoulder were the words [i]Brigada Internacional[/i].

He clutched an FE-74 assualt rifle in his right hand, the only modern gift from his Spanish employers and he supposed he ought to be grateful for it. It was clean, reliable, and like the rest of the men in his platoon, it came with one hundred rounds of ammunition, six grenades, and a six inch bayonet. A helmet was hung at his waist, an Argentine style beret was perched rakishly on his black hair, it was the only item other than the flag that gave any indication as to his place of birth. 

The men around him, over 600 crammed into a vessel meant for half the number, were similarly clothed, there the similarities ended. They were from all over the former Spanish Empire, South America, the United States, parts of southeast Asia and north Africa, a veritable mass drawn together by a common language and desire for adventure under the flag of their former colonial master. The majority, like Francisco, were from Argentina. 

To a boy from the farms of Mendoza it was the strangest sight he had ever seen as he looked over his shipmates. The majority of the younger Latins, like himself, were pressed up against the railings cheering every Spanish wheel strike. Behind them, in a small cleared patch of neck space, a group of black Moroccan soldiers were kneeling in prayer and murmuring in Arabic, a language he did not understand. He had made friends with one of them on the voyage, another massive youth like himself who was as broad in the shoulders and an inch taller, he went by the name of Mohammad Hassan and little did Francisco know, but their fates would be intertwined for years to come. He caught Francisco's eye as he bowed for another prayer and winked briefly at his Argentine comrade. 

"Ready to go ashore!" The shout rippled through the massed soldiers all of a sudden and Francisco looked down in surprise to see that the landing craft they had brought along had been lowered into the water. Sailors shouldered past the soldiers to drape long rope ladders down into the boats even as the battalions Spanish officers shouted at their men to grab their packs. It seemed that the battalion was being sent in to relieve the pressure on the Marines aboard the warships by driving the Ethiopian and Egyptian land forces away from the Canal.

 Francisco pushed his way through the throngs of soldiers to his “bunk”, a patch of deck that he had claimed as his own the minute he set foot on the ship. Many of the other men had claimed bunks below but Francisco had never liked cramped spaces and it turned out he’d made a wide choice, the lower decks had quickly become awash in vomit, sea water, and diesel fumes from the aged tankers engine room. 

He rolled up his small bedroll and strapped it to the top of his pack before hoisting it onto his back. Mohammad had been camped next to him and though they had initially avoided each other they quickly began to talk at night. Many of the white Spanish soldiers considered the non-whites sub-human and wouldn’t even give them the time of day, much less speak to them. Francisco, coming from the Mendoza wine region of Argentina, had met many non-whites on the big vineyards and worked alongside more than a few he considered his equal, and in some cases his superior in feats of strength and intelligence. 

“Delgado, stop gopping and get in the fucking boat!” The platoon Sergeant, a burly Spaniard from somewhere in Galicia, was waving his troops down the ropes and into the boats. As Delgado went to pass him buy the Sergeant yanked the beret off his head and shoved into his belt. “Get your lid on.”

Delgado quickly grabbed the helmet from his waist and pulled it onto his head, clipping it below his chin and then swinging his leg over the edge of the vessel. It suddenly occurred to him, as he swayed high above the waves that it was a long away down… Never in his life had the thought occurred to him but he quite suddenly realized his was afraid of heights. 

For a moment he hung in space, fixed rigid by the height of the drop. Then a hand was shoving at him and he took a deep breath, flipped his other leg over the edge and began to climb down the long rope, clutching at the rope so hard that every wave slammed him against the ship and tore at the skin on his hands. 

It seemed to take forever but at last he felt his boots on steel and he was safe again amidst the press of bodies. Only two others came down after home, one of them was Mohammad. They nodded, each trying to mask his fear, as the lines were thrown down and the small landing craft pulled away from the transport. 

Diesel engines rumbled and smoke poured from the exhaust of the landing craft as it turned towards the beach, the incoming tide lifting them and carrying them towards a long stretch of beach topped with a mostly empty roadway.

Three men in front of Delgado were a pair of American volunteers he had gotten to know. They were from a place called Florida, he had never been, and they talked with a strange twang to their Spanish. They had been mechanics before they volunteered and like Delgado had headed overseas with the idea of adventure and glory in mind.

Delgado, still staring to the front and trying to control his mounting fear, saw trucks racing across the roadway, men hanging off of every available angle. They slid to a halt and men jumped to the roadway, dropping to their knees and, Delgado realized with a start, that they were about to open fire.

At first he wasn’t even aware they’d fired until he was able to hear the buzz of passing bullets as they whizzed past the landing craft. Several struck the steel hull with a loud [i]PING[/i] and men ducked, some laughed nervously. 

The first man died quite suddenly, one of the bullets striking the wheelhouse and ricocheting into the packed troops huddled below. He gave a muted grunt and then collapsed into the water that was starting to slosh about the deck of the landing craft. His blood began to dilute the water at once and Delgado found himself kneeling, almost in shock, as the Sergeant screamed at him to get the mans ammunition and grenades.

He did so quickly, pulling the bandoliers from the dead man and slinging them over his shoulder and standing back up, trying desperately not to look down. He had seen plenty of blood before on the farm, even a couple of dead men, but never a man killed before by an enemy bullet. 

“Prepare to beach!” The words jolted him out of his thoughts and a glance up revealed the beach to be much closer than he had thought it was. The enemy soldiers were much closer and he could swear they were aiming right at him.

Suddenly the truck nearest to them vanished in a massive geyser of tarmac, dirt and fire. He didn’t know what had happened but he cheered with the rest of the men, the sight taking his mind off the dead body at his feet. 

“Thank god for the Navy!” The Sergeant shouted, smiling broadly at Delgado. The smile only seemed to grow and then suddenly blood burst from between the mans lips and he collapsed into the water, his blood mingling with that of the other man. Delgado couldn’t take it anymore, he vomited into the water, his breakfast covering the face of the Sergeant where it stared up at him from the deck.

“Ramp down!”

The cry came from one of the sailors and Delgado wiped his chin on his sleeve, had the presence of mind to take the Sergeants ammunition, and then the ramp dropped with a crash into the water. 

The war was on.