Young Lions Roar

by Andrew Mackay

  There was a sudden shot, and Bob collapsed onto the ground for the last time with a bloody hole between his eyes.

  “What the…?” Fred said in confusion. He turned around to see Ramón holding the battalion’s sole sniper rifle with the smoke still coming from the end of the barrel.

  “You bloody bastard, Ramón!” Fred was as angry as a berserker. “What did you do that for? You killed him! We could have saved him!”

  “No, Fred, you could not have,” Ramón said slowly as he shook his head. “That’s what the Moors wanted. You would have gone out to save him and they would have killed you, or they would have captured you and you would have suffered the same fate as poor Bob, or worse.”

  “Worse? What could possibly be worse than being blinded?” Fred asked incredulously.

  “Being castrated,” Ramón answered matter-of-factly. “Losing your manhood.” He shrugged. “I saw it in Morocco in 1921 when the Moorish rebels castrated some of our men who were captured at the Battle of Anual.”

  “That doesn’t change anything, Ramón, you’re still a murderer.” Fred raised his rifle, flicked off the safety catch and pulled the trigger, just as El Bonito rifle butted him in the back of the head. Fred collapsed like a sack of potatoes and the round thudded harmlessly into the back of the trench wall.

  “Thanks, Jefe,” Ramón said with relief.

  “Don’t mention it,” El Bonito said graciously. “You’d do the same for me, Ramón. Besides, you did the right thing. Fred lost his head. So did I for a moment back there… Hello? What’s going on?”

  El Bonito mounted the firing step and peered over the edge as he heard the stirring lyrics of the Republican anthem the ‘Internationale’ floating over the valley.

  “What is it? What can you see?” Ramón asked.

  El Bonito’s brows furrowed in confusion. “There are about fifty or so volunteers walking up the valley towards our position, and they’re singing and waving their rifles above their heads.”

  “And the Fascists are not opening fire?” Ramón asked.

  “No, they’re not,” El Bonito confirmed. “Maybe our boys have arranged a cease-fire with them in order to bury the dead; it’s not the first time that it’s happened. The same thing happened at the Battle of Jarama last year.” El Bonito shrugged and scratched his head. “I don’t know: perhaps our men are returning to our lines to grab stretchers to collect our wounded and spades to bury the dead…”

  “Anyway, let’s welcome them back, Jefe!” Ramón said cheerfully. “God knows that we could do with some good news around here.”

  “It’s working, Jefe.”

  “Don’t count your chickens yet, Francisco,” Mendoza replied. “The Reds may still see through your cunning plan, and if that happens we’ll be cut to pieces.”

  “What should we do, Captain?” Corporal Borghese asked.

  “Keep singing, Francisco!”

  “They’re nearly here, Ramón.” El Bonito lowered his binoculars as the returning volunteers steadily approached the Republican trenches. “Have you managed to gather up any stretchers or spades?”

  “Yes, Jefe,” Ramón answered. “But it’s not much. It’s nearly dusk and we don’t have much time to collect our dead and wounded. How’s Fred?” Ramón pointed with his chin.

  El Bonito chuckled. “Well, put it this way: he’s going to wake up with one hell of a headache.”

  Ramón laughed.

  “One other thing, Ramón; if I were you I’d watch your back from now on when Fred’s around. He and Bob were close. Fred looked after him like a younger brother.”

  “And I’d advise you to grow a pair of eyes in the back of your head as well, Jefe,” Ramón advised. “Fred doesn’t particularly strike me as the forgiving type.”

  El Bonito nodded in agreement. “Hello? What’s this?” His brows furrowed in confusion. “They’ve stopped singing… what’s going on?”

  “Grenades!” Mendoza shouted.

  In a split second each of the fifty returning “volunteers” threw two grenades in quick succession into the Republican positions. The bombs exploded amongst the unsuspecting British volunteers, who were caught completely unawares.

  “Viva la Legión! Viva España!” Mendoza shouted, and jumped into the nearest trench with a pistol in one hand and a bayonet in another. He shot a dazed and confused volunteer twice in the stomach before burying his bayonet in the chest of another other Republican soldier, who died with a look of utter surprise and confusion on his face. “Legiónaries, spread out down the length of the trench!” Mendoza ordered. “Capture the machine guns! Kill all of the Reds!”

  The Legiónaries cheered and flowed through the trench like an unstoppable flash flood, shooting and bayoneting all of the volunteers that they could find without mercy.

  “The Fascists are in the trenches!” El Bonito shouted in horror. “We’ve got to clear them out before they get reinforcements!”

  Ramón cocked his rifle and flicked off the safety catch. “I’m with you, Jefe!”

  “Follow me!” El Bonito ordered as he cocked his pistol and took out a grenade from his pocket.

  “Fire the Verey pistol, Corporal!” Mendoza ordered.

  “Yes, sir!” Borghese pointed the pistol straight up in the air and pulled the trigger. The flare shot straight up and exploded in a shower of green lights. A cheer erupted from the Nationalist trenches as hundreds of Legiónaries and Moor Regulares poured out of their fox-holes like an army of ants and swarmed over No Man’s Land, running as fast as they could towards the Republican lines.

  “Keep fighting, men!” Mendoza urged. “Reinforcements are coming!”

  “Grenade!” El Bonito threw a grenade around the corner of the trench, that exploded seconds before Ramón threw another. El Bonito ran around the corner before the dust had settled and shot two wounded Legiónaries in quick succession. He stuffed his still-smoking pistol back in his holster and picked up one of the dead Legiónaries’ rifles. Ramón swapped his rifle for the other dead Legiónnaire’s Star 9 millimetre submachine gun.

  “I’ve always wanted one of these…” Ramón said with childish joy as he stroked the barrel with appreciation.

  At that moment two Moor Regulares leaped into the trench behind them. Ramón spun around, pulled the trigger, and dropped the Regulares with a short burst.

  “We’ve got to get out of here, Jefe! They’re all around us!” Ramón urged.

  El Bonito nodded. “We’ll retreat to the second line of trenches and then we’ll counter attack…” He raised his whistle to his lips and blew three short blasts, signalling the withdrawal.

  “Hande hoch!” a guttural voice suddenly ordered.

  “Too late, Jefe.” Ramón said in despair as he raised his hands in surrender.

  El Bonito’s shoulders slumped in defeat as he wearily lifted up his arms.

  “For you the war is over, Tommy,” the voice announced triumphantly in heavily-accented English. “Slowly lower your weapons and take three steps backwards.”

  The two Republicans did as they were told.

  “Sehr gut.”

  The two men didn’t see the rifles that butted them in the back of their heads.

  The high-pitched scream stopped Mendoza in his tracks and sent him and Borghese doubling back along the trench in the opposite direction. Moaning and sobbing followed another ear- piercing scream.

  “Those bloody Moors…” Mendoza swore. “Their bloody officers are just as cold-blooded and cruel as they are…”

  Mendoza rounded the corner in time to see an SS Corporal stand up with an expression of sheer sadistic delight and satisfaction on his face.

  “What have you got there, Rottenführer?” Mendoza asked coldly.

  The stormtrooper held a bloody dagger in one hand and waved what looked like a bloody piece of meat in the air with the other hand. “Hello? Hello? Sorry, I can’t hear you!”

  The remaining half a dozen SS troopers collapsed into fits of raucous laughter. The S
S Corporal had a scar that stretched from his mouth to his jawline that twitched when he laughed. A Republican volunteer lay curled up on the ground with two hands wrapped around his head, vainly trying to staunch the flow of blood that streamed down his face in a never-ending flood.

  “These evil Nazi bastards cut off Fred’s ears!” Another Republican prisoner spat blood out of his mouth in furious accusation.

  “Shut up, you Red bastard! You’re next!” The Rottenführer pointed his finger angrily. “And maybe I won’t stop at cutting off your ears! Remember what the Moors did to your friend!”

  “This is completely unacceptable,” Mendoza said forcefully. “These men are prisoners of war and should be treated as such according to the Geneva Convention.”

  “What men, Captain?” the Rottenführer asked mockingly. “I don’t see any prisoners of war, I only see Jewish Bolshevik scum. Pick him up.”

  Two stormtroopers hauled the dazed and disfigured prisoner to his feet and, ignoring his howls of pain, pulled his bloody hands behind his back.

  “This is what I think of your precious Geneva Convention, Captain.” Before Mendoza could protest, the Rottenführer dragged his dagger across the throat of the helpless prisoner. An arc of blood spurted from the dying man’s throat like a geyser and formed a rapidly growing pool on the floor of the dusty trench.

  Mendoza gazed unblinking in total and utter shock and horror.

  “Now I’m going to kill the other two prisoners, Captain.” The Rottenführer advanced towards the two helpless prisoners. “And you’re going to watch me do it… sir.”

  “For God’s sake, stop him, Captain! I beg you!”

  “Captain Mendoza! For the love of God and for the honour of Spain and the Legión - stop this Nazi murderer!”

  The mention of his name snapped Mendoza out of his stupor. He looked at the third Republican prisoner who had appealed to him in his native Spanish.

  “Obersturmführer, for the last time, I advise you to order your man to stop or I will be forced to stop you,” Mendoza threatened menacingly.

  “Captain Mendoza, these dirty Red bastards killed four of my men today and they deserve everything that they’ve got coming to them. However, we’re not going to blind them like your Moorish friends: we Germans are not barbarians. Rottenführer?” the SS Lieutenant in command of the Condor Legión detachment said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I order you to cut the throats of these two Red untermensch bastards. I want to hear them squeal like pigs before they die.”

  “With pleasure, sir.” The Rottenführer advanced menacingly towards the two helpless prisoners with a predator’s smile on his lips as two pairs of SS troopers held the prisoner’s arms firmly behind them.

  “I warned you, Obersturmführer.”

  “Oh yeah? Who’s going to stop me? You and whose army?” the SS officer asked arrogantly.

  “Me and my army,” Mendoza replied. “A mí la Legión!”

  Thirty pairs of arms cocked their weapons and flicked off their safety catches.

  The stormtroopers looked up and saw Legiónaries standing on the parapet of the trench both to the front and behind them. The Germans were completely surrounded. A pungent stench of faeces drifted through the air as the Obersturmführer realised that more than a few of his men had lost control of their bodily functions.

  “Come, come, Captain,” The SS officer backtracked desperately. “Let’s not be too hasty. Don’t do something that you’ll regret later. Let’s be reasonable. After all we are allies, and these prisoners are nothing but dirty Reds…”

  “These dirty Reds are Spanish prisoners. They are Franco’s prisoners, they are my prisoners and they are certainly not your prisoners, you murdering Nazi bastards!”

  “Captain, please…!”

  “No second chances, Adolf. Legiónaries!”

  The Legiónaries all raised their weapons to their firing positions.

  “No…!”

  “Open fire!”

  The Legiónaries shot the stormtroopers at point-blank range and did not stop firing until their magazines were completely empty. The Nazis collapsed like a stack of cards and lay in a steaming bloody heap on the ground.

  “Cease fire!” Mendoza ordered. “Well done, Legiónaries! You have performed your duties efficiently and with dedication. The execution of these Nazis was regrettable, but was necessary in order to uphold the honour of Spain and of the Legión. Viva la Legión! Viva España!”

  “Viva la Legión! Viva España!” The Legiónaries repeated the motto with gusto.

  “Now reorganise the captured position: distribute any remaining ammunition, gather any useful weapons and supplies from the Reds and from our own dead and wounded, take care of our injured men, guard any prisoners, and prepare for an immediate Red counterattack.”

  “Yes, Captain!” The Legiónaries chorused.

  “Corporal Borghese?”

  “Stay with me and take care of any wounded Germans,” Mendoza ordered.

  “With pleasure, sir.” Borghese smiled as he slung his rifle and took his pistol out from his holster.

  Mendoza holstered his own pistol and walked up to the Republican prisoner who had addressed him by name in Spanish.

  “Hello, Ramón.”

  “Hello, Juan.”

  El Bonito’s jaw dropped as the men embraced in a bear hug.

  Chapter Six

  “Would someone mind telling me what the hell is going on?” El Bonito asked in wide-eyed confusion.

  Ramón wiped tears from his face as he turned around to face his commander. “I’m sorry, Jefe. How rude of me not to introduce you properly. This is my big brother, Juan.”

  “Your big brother is a Fascist?” El Bonito blurted out without thinking before he could stop himself. He had wondered why Ramón was so reluctant to talk about this family. And now he knew.

  Ramón’s back visibly stiffened as he answered El Bonito’s question. “Juan is not a Fascist, Jefe; he is as much of a Spanish patriot as I am. We have agreed to disagree about the best way to serve Spain’s interests. And if you were any other man I would challenge you to a duel for insulting my family’s honour.”

  Juan laughed at his younger brother’s old-fashioned notions of chivalry and honour. “That won’t be necessary, little brother. I wouldn’t expect a foreigner to understand…”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean, Captain Mendoza?” El Bonito interrupted angrily. “I’m an educated man and I’ve been here since July ‘36. I think that I’ve got a pretty good idea of what we’re fighting for and what we’re fighting against.”

  Mendoza sighed in resignation. “What you are fighting for and what you are fighting against may not necessarily be the same as what we are fighting for,” - Mendoza pointed to his brother and himself - “and what we are fighting against.”

  “Well, perhaps you could enlighten me, Captain. What are you fighting for and against?” El Bonito asked as he folded his arms. “I’m all ears and I don’t think that I’ll be going anywhere in a hurry.”

  “It’s complicated…”

  “Are you fighting for this?” El Bonito pointed at Fred’s mutilated corpse. “Are you fighting for them?” He pointed at the dead Nazis. “For the right to torture, mutilate and murder helpless captured prisoners of war?”

  “No!” Mendoza answered angrily. “I am not fighting for those Nazi bastards! What that Nazi bastard did was utterly barbaric and was beyond the pale. I don’t approve of the way that some of our own Moor Regulares treat their prisoners either. However, we needed weapons and ammunition and tanks and aeroplanes to fight against the Reds. After all, you had Soviet Communist help.”

  “I see. Beggars can’t be choosers, eh?” El Bonito said provocatively.

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend, Jefe.” Ramón tried valiantly to defend his big brother’s motives.

  “Christ, Ramón! Whose side are you on?” El Bonito accused.

  “I’m on the side of truth an
d justice and democracy and I’m against lies, injustice and Fascism!” Ramón replied angrily.

  “God help you if England ever suffers a civil war, señor,” Mendoza said wearily. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy: you may not find it so easy to decide whose side to fight on when your countrymen are at each other’s throats.”

  “Don’t worry, Captain. I assure you that I will know whose side to fight on,” El Bonito replied defiantly.

  “Captain Mendoza!” Borghese ran up to him with a smoking pistol in his hand.

  “Yes, what is it, Corporal?”

  “The Reds are counterattacking, sir! With more than thirty tanks and supporting infantry!”

  Mendoza suddenly became aware of the ominous clanking noise made by the caterpillar treads of dozens of tanks steadily approaching the captured Republican trenches. He carefully climbed the rear of the trench and cautiously peered over the edge through his binoculars. “Madre Dios! Soviet tanks, and we don’t have a single anti tank rifle in the entire battalion!” He turned to face Borghese. “What’s the condition of the captured Maxim machine guns? And do we have radio contact with the Condor Legión Artillery Battery?”

  Borghese shook his head. “It’s no use, sir. Most of the Maxims were damaged beyond repair in our attack and the radio was riddled with bullets, so we have no way of contacting the battery to request a fire mission. We have absolutely nothing to stop the attack. The Reds will roll over us any minute, Captain.”

  Mendoza swore again. “You’re absolutely right. We’ll have to retreat and hope that the Red tanks follow us to within range of our own artillery.” Mendoza turned to face his younger brother. “Ramón, I want you and Trotsky here to remain in the trenches. I’m not going to take you prisoner: you’re free.”

  “Juan… Juan, I don’t know what to say…” Ramón said as his eyes filled up with tears.

  “You are going to lose the war, Ramón. Resistance is futile. Promise me that you’ll get away safely to France or England.”

  “I… we won’t lose, Juan! We are going to win! We won’t surrender!” Ramón protested.