‘Thank you, Sargento,’ Peralta said, swallowing. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Haven’t finished yet, sir.’ The truck was slowing as they reached the top of the hill. The headlights flickered over a wall of roughly hewn stone. A flat patch of ground, with a large weather-beaten wooden sign nailed to a post, announcing in painted letters: Compañía Española de Minas, fundada 1898.
Peralta saw a few small warehouses and outbuildings. To the right of these, a rough stone wall ran along the side of a field and nearer still, running parallel to the wall, was a small drainage ditch. The truck stopped.
‘The comandante said you mentioned something about a firing squad.’
‘Yes, I asked if he wanted help organising it, that was all, Sargento.’
In the wing mirror, Peralta saw the other vehicles pulling to a halt, headlights picking out the crumbling stone walls, shuttered windows and half collapsed outbuildings of the Compañía Española de Minas, established 1898.
The sargento turned to Peralta. ‘This may not be quite what you were expecting, sir.’
LAS PEÑAS, 1953, COMPAÑÍA ESPAÑOLA DE MINAS
Guzmán was already barking orders as the sargento got down from the truck. Peralta climbed out more slowly, stretching his numb legs and rubbing his left thigh, battered by the gear stick. The driver began to reverse, stopping at Guzmán’s shouted command. The headlights picked out a stretch of the ditch and the stone wall beyond it, etching them in the freezing air, framed by the night.
Peralta waited by the truck. The driver clambered out and disappeared round the back. More shouting. Orders. Acknowledgements. Shouts aimed at the prisoners. Peralta took out his cigarettes and lit one, glad that the darkness hid his shaking hands. Guzmán was standing near him and, for a moment, Peralta was going to speak, to make some small comment, share some sense of mutual involvement in this. Then he saw Guzmán’s face and the urge to speak to him was gone.
The guardia civiles manhandled the prisoners from the trucks, herding them forwards to stand by the ditch. Some were recovering from the sargento’s narcotic cocktail, others were whimpering, stumbling, dazed and dazzled by the battery of headlights illuminating their last walk.
‘I want to confess,’ a timid voice called. Peralta looked around for the priest. There he was, his bony hands clutching a cross and a Bible. At least he will be some use now, Peralta thought, a man about to die surely won’t care who administers to him. The priest stood in the white beam of the truck’s headlights, casting angular shadows onto the prisoners as they waited, heads bowed, breath smoking in the harsh light.
‘Confess then, you murderer, filthy assassin, Soviet lackey.’
The screeching voice contrasted with the silence of the prisoners, now lined up a metre apart along the edge of the shallow ditch. They faced the low wall, their shadows huge and distorted in the pale septic light.
‘You killed nuns, raped them, ate their flesh. Sodomites, catamites, traitors to God. Now you repent but it’s too late. You fear the pains of hell but they wait for you, your names are damned and you with them…’
The priest moved forward, attempting to strike the nearest prisoner. Peralta looked at Guzmán for some sort of direction, but the comandante was standing outside the glare of the headlights, looking down. For a moment Peralta thought he was praying, but then, in the half light, he saw the big Browning pistol in Guzmán’s hand. Guzmán had taken off his gloves and Peralta saw him slide off the safety and check the action of the pistol, the sound sharp and thin in the shuffling quiet.
‘Just do what we asked, padre.’ The sarge gently restrained the drunken priest who took a last lurching swing at the prisoner and then staggered back, cursing.
‘Very well. Let them kneel.’
The guardia civiles moved quickly, forcing the prisoners to their knees with blows from their rifles. The line of men knelt along the edge of the ditch, facing the stone wall, their shadows stark against the pale stones. Peralta saw the professor at the far end of the line, kneeling as if in church, back straight, ready to receive communion.
The priest began to speak but the sarge tugged his sleeve, urging him to stand further back. The man tottered back a few paces, with the sarge’s hand on his arm, steadying him. The priest finally spoke in a high cracked voice, trembling with emotion.
‘I confess to Almighty God, to blessed Mary ever Virgin, to blessed Michael the Archangel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, to all the Saints, and to you Father, that I have sinned exceedingly, in thought, word and deed: through my fault…’
The prisoners begin to recite the familiar prayer and Peralta joined in, clinging to the comfort of the familiar words, words that bound him to a different world, a place away from this freezing vision of hell.
‘… through my fault…’
The guardia civiles withdrew, slowly retreating pace by pace until they were standing several metres behind the prisoners. As if avoiding something.
‘… through my most grievous fault.’
Peralta looked at the stone wall. As if avoiding something.
‘Therefore I beseech blessed Mary ever Virgin, blessed Michael the Archangel…’
The stone wall. Bullets. They were avoiding ricochets. Something sharp and unpleasant started to rise in Peralta’s throat.
‘… blessed John the Baptist, the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, all the Saints, and you Father, to pray to the Lord our God for me.’
‘Amen.’ Peralta tried to swallow. His mouth was dry. His breathing getting faster. A trickle of sweat slid down his face. He looked at Guzmán. Guzmán moved slowly, his right arm by his side as he approached the line of prisoners. He had removed his hat. Peralta saw the headlights glint on Guzmán’s oiled hair.
The priest raised his hand.
‘May Almighty God have mercy on you, and forgiving your sins, bring you to life everlasting. Amen.’
Guzmán was about a metre from the first prisoner. Peralta saw the steam of the prisoner’s breath, his shoulders heaving.
‘May the Almighty and merciful Lord grant us pardon, absolution, and remission of all our sins. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ Peralta mouthed, his voice a hoarse whisper.
‘Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.’
Guzmán was behind the prisoner now, looking down at him. Peralta couldn’t see the comandante’s face, but he didn’t need to. When he had seen him a few minutes earlier it had been enough. His expression had been empty: beyond fear, or pity, beyond any human emotion, entirely focused on the work. On his work.
‘Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.’
The prisoners struggled to repeat the words as the priest’s delivery grew faster, charging the words with a hysterical urgency. Peralta was sweating heavily, his gaze alternating between the kneeling figures and the dark bulk of Guzmán standing motionless behind the first prisoner, right arm raised as if pointing to the man’s guilt.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.’
Peralta crossed himself, his hand shaking. ‘Amen.’
The blast of the pistol shot slammed the man forward into the ditch, the concussive echo bouncing back painfully from the stone wall. Peralta was breathing in short dry gasps now. Where there had been a human being, there was now a crumpled shape and the inverted outline of the soles of the man’s shoes. The second blast was worse. Guzmán moved slowly down the line to the next man. Peralta fought a sudden urge to vomit. This time, the prisoner screamed before the explosion. His words were garbled, incomprehensible, suddenly sheared off by the blast from Guzmán’s Browning.
There was a line established now. Just a metre or so separating life and death. Those kneeling on this side of the ditch were with the living. But, as Guzmán approached, each step brought nearer the short journey into the shallow ditch. Peralta saw them shaking, saw their involuntary spasms of fear at the next bl
ast of Guzmán’s pistol. And then the tinny sound of the ejected cartridge on the frozen ground as he moved on to the next victim. The shots no longer made Peralta flinch so readily, though his ears rang from the percussion. He placed a hand on the side of the truck. He listened to the crunch of Guzmán’s feet on the icy ground, the loud terrified breathing, the sobs, the whimpers, the pleas, the violent blast that took away part of their head. And then the same sequence repeated. Many of the prisoners wept as their turn approached and the tension was reducing Peralta to a similar state. Don’t forget you’ll be going home afterwards, Guzmán had said. The bile in Peralta’s throat was sharp and bitter as he struggled to keep it down. Guzmán paused. Peralta looked up, retching, as he peered through the white glare of the headlights towards the two prisoners still alive. Guzmán had stopped and Peralta heard the metallic noise of the pistol as he removed the magazine. In an unwanted moment of insight, Peralta realised what the problem was.
It was the Browning. The magazine held only thirteen rounds. There were fifteen prisoners. Guzmán was reloading.
Guzmán slapped the magazine back into place with his palm and Peralta heard the sound of the hammer as he cocked the pistol.
‘Sons of Satan, Freemasons, communists. Asesinos.’
It was the priest, clutching a bottle pulled from his bag, lurching towards the ditch where fourteen bodies now lay in a neatly spaced line, face down in the drainage ditch, their feet still touching the road, the wall beyond spattered with blood and fragments of brain tissue, the stains black in the white arc of the headlights. ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord…’ The priest was addressing one of the corpses, poking it with his foot.
The shot seemed even louder after the short pause in the killing. Scalding bile exploded from Peralta’s nose and mouth. One of the civil guards turned and looked at him with disdain.
Only el Profesor remained. Kneeling, his back straight. Staring ahead. Facing the short journey across the line.
‘This way, Father.’ The sargento was pulling Father Vasquez away. ‘That’s a good chap.’ The priest was trying to spit on the bodies but was mostly spitting on himself.
Peralta remembered the afternoon. The prisoner Mendoza has been identified as a special case.
By the ditch, Guzmán was holstering his pistol.
Peralta had found that mark in the ledger, had alerted Guzmán to it. Guzmán had thanked him. The prisoner is a special case. The sarge knew what it meant. He’d laughed.
‘I’m waiting, Comandante Guzmán,’ the professor called, his voice steady. ‘Run out of bullets? That’s Franco’s economy for you.’
The sargento was struggling to prevent the priest from attacking Guzmán now.
‘Kill the fucker, burn him, burn him like they burned the nuns, kill him.’ And then, as a civil guard rushed forward to help pull him away, the priest screeched up into the frozen night sky: ‘They cut off my balls.’
Guzmán was standing behind the professor, pulling on his gloves.
Peralta saw Guzmán take something from his coat pocket, draw his hands apart and jerk them, testing the shining wire now wrapped around each gloved hand. The sargento watched, enthralled, even as the priest struggled to kick him. The sarge knew what Guzmán had in his hands for the professor. The professor is a special case.
‘Comandante, shoot and have done with it,’ el Profesor shouted. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold out here.’
Guzmán gave an angry grunt as he launched himself forward, looping the wire over el Profesor’s head, pulling it taut around his throat as he thrust his knee into the small of the man’s back. The professor pitched forward under Guzmán’s considerable weight into the shallow ditch. The bleached headlights of the trucks threw their distorted shadows onto the stone wall. Guzmán knelt on the man, his right knee pinning him down, keeping his bound hands trapped in place while he strangled him.
Peralta stood transfixed. The sight of Guzmán throttling the man was bad but the noise as he threshed beneath Guzmán’s great bulk, struggling to breathe as the wire bit deep into his throat was almost enough to send Peralta screaming back to Madrid on foot. Almost. Instead, he sank to his knees and began to puke, his harsh gurgling mimicking the dying man’s last rattling attempts to breathe. The noisy struggle for air ended abruptly, leaving a silence broken only by Peralta’s retching.
Guzmán stood up, sweating from the exertion. He walked back toward Peralta. The priest broke free of the sargento and ran towards Guzmán, gibbering in a voice cracked by drunken malice. ‘Ya faltan menos. Death to the Reds. Viva Franco. So die all—’
Guzmán’s punch hit the priest on the temple, knocking him to the ground. Without breaking stride, Guzmán stepped over the unconscious priest and continued towards Peralta. Peralta looked up into Guzmán’s expressionless face, saw the blank eyes. Holding his stomach, Peralta rose to his feet. ‘You… you punched a priest,’ he said weakly.
Guzmán nodded. ‘Sometimes I have no sense of humour when I’m working.’ He looked round. ‘Where’s the brandy, Sarge?’
The sargento held out a bottle. ‘Here you go, sir, get a drop of that down you.’
‘Not me, you idiot, him.’ Guzmán nodded at Peralta. The sargento passed the bottle grudgingly. Peralta looked at the brandy. On the point of refusing, he suddenly grabbed the bottle and downed a mouthful, coughing as the fiery spirit burned his throat. It was almost like being sick again, only more painful. And then he vomited, sinking back to his knees to avoid spewing onto his shoes.
‘Perhaps not.’ Guzmán took the bottle from Peralta, wiping the neck with his gloved hand before taking a drink. ‘Must have been something you ate, Acting Teniente.’
Peralta stood up again, mopping his face with a handkerchief. Guzmán offered him a cigarette and he shook his head. Guzmán raised an eyebrow in theatrical surprise.
‘What now, Comandante?’ Peralta asked, his throat sore from vomiting and brandy.
‘We drive back into the city,’ Guzmán said breezily. ‘These lads can tidy up. Sarge, you know where that lot are going?’
‘Si, mi Comandante. We’ve got the bricklayer with us. I’ll sort it all out.’
‘Bueno. Make sure he seals it up properly before you leave.’
Guzmán walked to the nearest truck and shouted to Peralta to join him.
He waited as Peralta climbed into the cab and then got in, crushing the teniente between his bulk and the gear stick.
‘Early night for you, son,’ Guzmán said to the driver. ‘And no dirty work.’
‘Sí, mi Comandante,’ the driver grinned happily. ‘Early night for you too, jefe?’
‘Not at all. The teniente and I are off to a reception with the top brass.’
‘Vaya vida,’ the driver said, impressed. ‘That’s how to live, sir.’
Guzmán nodded in agreement. ‘So they say. Then after that, I’ve got a date.’
‘Hombre, what a night.’ The man shook his head admiringly.
‘With a decent woman, mind,’ Guzmán said. ‘I’m not paying.’
‘It just gets better, mi Comandante.’
Peralta hunched miserably in the oily claustrophobia of the cab, hoping he had emptied his stomach entirely by now. He had not. The ride back was as twisting and tortuous as before and Peralta had to ask the driver to stop twice. Guzmán and the driver watched Peralta kneeling by the roadside, interrupting their conversation about the price of whores to listen to his retching with amused contempt. Time passed slowly. It was after ten when the truck rattled into the road behind the comisaría. Guzmán jumped from the cab as Peralta headed for the stark comfort of the building.
‘Don’t spend too long with your head in the toilet, Teniente, we’ve a party to go to.’
Peralta’s pace quickened as he started to retch again. Guzmán let him run ahead, and strolled cheerfully after him, whistling. The driver turned off the ignition and locked the cab door, pausing to light a cigarette. His lighter spluttered and refused to light.
He cursed. A man was standing in a doorway and the driver approached him for a light. The man lit the driver’s cigarette, wishing him a good evening. The driver exhaled smoke into the thin night air, idly watching the man walk up the street and turn into Calle Gallegos. The man’s footsteps died away and the empty street fell back into silence and shadow. Finishing his cigarette, the driver threw the butt away and entered the comisaría. The door closed behind him leaving Calle de Robles in funereal quiet. After a few minutes, the man in the black coat slowly returned to his vigil, this time walking a little further down the street before stepping into the shadow of a doorway.
BADAJOZ 1936
Around them were pine trees, their sharp, pungent needles a soft carpet beneath the men’s boots as they scrambled away from the rocky incline. Twelve still alive. One man wanted to surrender but no one else saw the sense in that. It wasn’t that the Moorish troops might kill them – they almost certainly would – it was the manner in which it would be done that prevented them giving up there and then. Montesino the corporal took charge. The Moors had to come up the same steep stony conduit they had just scrambled up, he pointed out. Only one man at a time could emerge from the narrow ravine onto the plateau. They would make a stand here: it was a good defensive position.
The men fanned out in a widely spaced line in the soft grass, feeling the fragrant pine needles give gently beneath them as they took up their firing positions. The sun was behind them and, as the Moors emerged from the jagged rocks, they would be dazzled for a few vital moments while the men lying in the dappled shade beneath the trees would be almost invisible. It was a reassuring plan and the men waited with a renewed sense of purpose, peering intently through the sights of their rifles at the entrance to the plateau.
‘Allahu Akbar.’ God is great. Excited shouts, the voices of hunters nearing the kill. The corporal lay a few metres from the kid. He looked over, smiling and making a thumbs up sign. But the kid looked at him blankly and turned back to peer down his rifle sight. The sound of boots on stone grew louder as the first Moors began to scramble up the last few metres to the grassy plateau.
The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) Page 16