by Diana Rosie
‘Captain,’ he replies, his voice low, ‘I pray for every soul lost in this futile war. But atrocities should not be matched by further atrocities. Where will it end? Our country will be only flooded with blood.’
‘Good God, man!’ I holler. ‘If it were not for the support of the righteous of this country, your Church would have been destroyed. And where would you be then? As poor as the pathetic creatures scraping a living in the fields.’
The priest pulls his shoulders back and looks me straight in the eye. For a moment, we glare directly at each other. Behind his spectacles, his dark green eyes flash with passion, and as I look into them, I see him make a decision.
‘I would be honoured to work alongside the poor,’ he says. His voice wavers, but his words are emphatic.
We stare at each other, both aware of what he has done. These are the words of a Republican: he is a traitor.
In that moment, it is my turn to make a decision.
I suck a ball of saliva behind my teeth and spit it at him with all the venom I can muster.
The spit lands on his left cheek, and for an instant, I am as shocked as he is. I know what I have done is a sacrilege, unforgivable. But this is not a man of the Church. He is the enemy.
As he stands, still staring at me, I turn to leave, but suddenly I hear a shrill voice scream, ‘No!’
It is the boy. He has been watching everything, and as I look, he runs towards me.
‘Alberto, stop!’ shouts the priest, but the boy ignores him. As he reaches me, I see his hands are clenched into small fists, and with a speed and strength I did not expect of him, he lands a blow on my thigh.
It hurts more than I let on, but as he lifts his other arm to hit me again, I strike him hard across the face with the back of my hand. The clout sends him crashing to the ground and he skids across the dirt.
I watch the priest dash over to the boy, spittle still hanging from his cheek.
Taking a deep breath, I adjust my jacket and holster, check my hat and run my fingers over my moustache.
‘I can see little reason to defend this pitiful place and its inhabitants,’ I say with disdain. Looking down at the priest kneeling by the boy, who is nursing a bloodied knee, I conclude with the words, ‘It seems the enemy is already here.’
With that, I turn on my heel and stride past them.
The wind is strong and the eucalyptus trees creak high above us. For the last ten minutes, it has been quiet on both sides. The brown dust loosened by gunshots has been whipped up and swirls round the patch of land between us. It makes it hard to see where the enemy hides, and the wind steals the sounds that would give them away.
‘Captain?’ queries the soldier crouching beside me by the ditch wall. His build is solid and stocky, but his gun shakes in his hand, betraying his fear.
‘We wait,’ I say quietly to him. ‘We’ll let them give themselves away.’
I glance along the ditch, checking my men. They all keep their heads below the top of the dusty line of fire, awaiting my command. Glancing over the top of the earthy ridge, I see the fallen men lying between us and the Republican enemy.
Earlier in the day, my men brought me word that a band of Rojos had been spotted a few miles out of the village. We assembled quickly and went out on foot. Surprise has been our greatest weapon and I knew we did not have time to wait for the reinforcements and armoured vehicles we had been expecting.
We came up behind them near a stretch of road about five miles from the village. They were ambling along, relaxed and chatting among themselves. They must have had no communications that we were in the area, but that is no excuse. At the very least, they should have been securing their flanks. The lack of military discipline appalled me. I quietly directed my men into a nearby ditch, where they swiftly set up the machine gun. And on my command, they opened fire.
Of course, many of the Republican soldiers were shot in the back, and those that turned towards us had little time to raise their guns before we scythed them down. The few that survived managed to dive behind a small hillock on the other side of a dusty patch of land from us. They started firing and shots flew in both directions. Then the wind sprang up, swirling dust around us all, and the firing ceased. Now both sides are waiting for the other to make the first move.
Two of my men are dead. Or rather, one is dead. The other continues to moan and plead for help where he lies, but I refuse to let my men rescue him. I can see no point in risking more soldiers for the sake of a man who will most likely die anyway. I saw the hate in my men’s eyes when I refused to let them collect him, but I don’t care: I know they will channel that hatred into fighting the enemy.
The gunner sits nearby, our only machine gun wedged into the rocks beside him. He is young, probably about nineteen, and keeps his short hair neatly cropped. I know his name is Luis, but I would never call him that. I cannot be seen to be too personal with my men.
As I watch the gunner, he digs in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes and lifts one to his mouth with a shaking hand. Then, after more digging, he pulls out a box of matches. The first breaks as he strikes it. The second lights, but his hand is shaking so violently he can’t get it close to the cigarette.
Instinctively, I reach out and grip his wrist. Luis looks up at me, surprised, but lets me guide his hand to the cigarette hanging from his lips. As he sucks the life into it, I let go and he nods his thanks.
I can remember when fear had gripped me with such intensity too.
Shortly after the war began, I was given my first command and we were sent to a city that was being occupied. Although my training had been extensive, this was to be my first true battle. However, the Rojos had been weakened by the fall of a nearby city, and by the time we arrived, our forces were entering the city’s outskirts and we’d joined them.
My instructions had been to take prisoners, but as we stepped over enemy soldiers dead on the road, it was clear that they had been executed. The military academy had instilled in me honour above all, and I did my best to hide my shock.
As we carried on, we heard shots from the city centre. Turning a corner, we came to a small plaza, where dozens of Rojo soldiers were standing, their hands behind their heads. They were surrounded by our men, guns trained on them from every direction. A general had noticed me and called me over. Leaving my men, I ran over to speak to him.
After the initial formalities, he said, ‘I’m glad you’re here, García. I have been instructed to be at the bullring. These men need despatching; you may now take over.’
‘The prisoners, sir?’ I replied, confused.
He looked me square in the face, and I lifted my chin in an attempt to show confidence. I failed.
‘This is your first time, isn’t it?’ he asked quietly.
‘Sir, I was highly commended at the academy—’
‘Yes, yes, I see,’ he interrupted, sighing. ‘Look, I know it’s not what you learn at the academy, but these filthy Rojos need be despatched.’
‘But, sir—’
‘Just do it!’ he snapped. Then, his face softening a little, he said, ‘By killing these enemy soldiers, you are protecting your mother and your sisters. Do it in the name of the Lord Himself, for we are the protectorate of the Catholic Church.’
‘Yes, sir!’ I said loudly, saluting him.
He started towards the motorcycle beside him, but turned back briefly to say, ‘Oh, and don’t waste bullets, García. One each.’
I nodded at him.
It took all my strength to control my voice as I gave my men their orders. We had corralled the prisoners at one end of the square and led a line out into the centre. The prisoners had realized what was happening, but seeing our numbers were so great, understood that any attempt to escape would be futile.
I could see how uncomfortable my men were with their task, so I decided that I should fire the first shot. I ordered the most senior Republican out in front of the rest and took my pistol from its holster. My enemy stood tall in fr
ont of me. He looked noble in front of his men. I unclipped the safety catch on my gun, noticing how badly my hands shook, and knew that the only way to mask my fear was to act quickly.
Dispelling all thoughts of morals, I lifted my gun to the back of his head and pulled the trigger. The man crumpled at my feet.
‘Fire!’ I instructed my men.
The shots rang out and the line of men fell. Shouts and screams came from the remaining prisoners as my soldiers dragged the bodies into the corner of the plaza. As they brought out the next line of men, a lone voice could be heard. One man had begun singing the ‘Himno de Riego’. His voice trembled, but his fellow men quickly joined in the Republican anthem.
Soon, the force of the other voices gave them strength and they’d sung over the sounds of the gunshots as more of their men had fallen.
‘Soldiers, the country calls us to the fight. Let us swear for her to conquer or to die.’
I let them sing. They sang to the very last man. And when the singing of that accursed song had stopped, we piled the final bodies in the corner of the plaza and moved further on into the city. By then, I was a different man.
When we reached the bullring, we discovered killing on a much larger scale. Men and women, soldiers and civilians were mown down in front of my eyes. Not all of them had been killed outright, and the sounds of the dying had turned my stomach.
But I presented myself to the nearest officer and we soon were recruited into the massacre. Since that day, killing has become easier. Now, I have no compunction in bringing death to my enemy. It is my duty: I do it for my country, for Franco and for God.
The gale continues to roar across the dry, barren land and blows grit from the edge of the ditch into my eyes and mouth. Suddenly, I notice the sound has changed. As I close my eyes and listen carefully, I realize it is not the wind making the noise at all.
Opening my eyes, I search the road behind us. And there, behind a whirl of dust, is an enemy armoured car rattling at speed towards us. I shout at my men, who turn and begin firing.
But the machine gun is facing the wrong way. As Luis struggles to move it, I see a man wearing overalls and a beret lean out of the moving vehicle, aim and fire at my gunner. The bullet hits its target, killing Luis instantly, as the two men beside him dive to the bottom of the ditch.
I gasp briefly, but quickly make myself focus on the situation. I shout my orders. Half of the men are to shoot at the truck as it hurtles along the dusty road; the bullets bounce off the armoured car, but my men continue to fire. The others are to get the machine gun cleaned up and ready it to use again. I turn my back to the body slumped in the ditch. I have come to terms with the realities of war, but have no wish to look at Luis’s corpse.
We watch as the vehicle drives alongside us on the road, veering off suddenly towards the mound. There it stops, aims its guns towards us and starts firing again. The soldier standing beside me is too slow to duck behind the ditch edge and is hit in the neck. He falls beside me, grasping at his throat as blood bubbles out of the open wound. He turns his head towards me and reaches out to me. For a moment, I want to take his hand, but I stop myself.
I lean instead out of his reach. I glance away to avoid the pitiful look on his face. Thankfully, it is over quickly and his eyes glaze as he drops to the ground.
Through the settling dust, I can see the rescued Republican soldiers running to the rear of the vehicle, where they start to climb in. We carry on shooting, but it’s an impossible task, as the truck rains bullets on us.
Then, incredibly, from the dip in the ridge where I am watching, I see one of the fighters run out from beside the truck. I can’t believe it – he was safe. What is he doing? His hat is missing and his blond hair is blowing about in the wind. For a moment, it forms a perfect golden halo round his head. He skids to the ground by the edge of the road where one of their men lies. Slinging his gun over his shoulder, he grabs his comrade underneath his arms and starts to drag him towards the truck.
I look along the ditch and see my men are hunched below the ridge, only occasionally firing an aimless shot over their heads. By contrast, the Republicans are now leaning out of their truck firing at us. I watch as the blond soldier reaches the vehicle, and the others grapple the wounded man into it. The blond man then darts out again, weaving across the land back towards the road’s edge.
I have had enough. Crouching low, I run along the ditch, instructing my men to cover me. They immediately start firing towards the truck, and I hear the scream of one of the enemy as he is struck. I carry on, scrambling over the body of a soldier I shouted at this morning.
As the ditch becomes more shallow, I sink to my stomach and start crawling. The ditch has curved towards the road, and I am now quite a distance from my men. Peeking above the edge, on my right I can see my men firing at the truck, which is now on my left. The Rojos have not seen me, and as I turn towards the road, I see the blond man kneeling by another fallen soldier.
But this time, he is shaking the soldier, shouting at him. It is clear that the man is dead. I lift my pistol. As I watch, the blond repeats the dead man’s name: ‘Ramón! Ramón!’ Distressed, he runs his fingers through his fringe, pulling the hair off his face.
Spotting my moment, I rise to my knees, aim and fire. The bullet hits the blond in the chest and he falls slowly to the road’s edge, a surprised look on his face. Diving back behind the ridge, a barrage of bullets hit the ground around me. I crawl as fast as I can back to my men, who have managed to set up the machine gun again and are firing at the vehicle.
As I reach my men, the armoured truck starts up and, with a lurch and a cloud of dust, rattles back to the road and roars away. My men cheer and slap me on the back. I do not approve of this disrespectful behaviour, but they have, in the main, been brave, so I indulge them in their celebration. They know I have made my point about trying to rescue fallen comrades. It may be loyal, it may be seen as courageous, but it is stupid and futile.
The dust of the armoured vehicle can just be seen in the distance as we scout across the land checking bodies. Occasional shots ring out as the wounded are despatched.
I am just walking round the mound the renegades were hiding behind when I see one of our trucks coming towards us, trundling along the road from the town. The lorry slows down as the driver sees me, but I wave him on – we don’t need him, and the Rojos ahead will be long gone.
As he drives past, I see the boy who struck me at the churchyard sitting in the cab beside the driver. But he does not see me. He is staring, wide-eyed, at the blond fighter lying by the roadside.
The truck rumbles on as I walk over to the fallen soldier. Standing over him, I wonder if he is German or English. His silky hair has fallen back and reveals a young face with freckles scattered over a pointed nose. I look down at his scruffy, mismatched uniform: the half-turned-up shirt collar, missing jacket buttons and torn trousers. Sneering at his lack of pride in his uniform, I lift my pistol, aim at his forehead and fire.
Chapter Five
The train softly jigged the small boy in his seat as he tried to navigate the orange segment into his mouth. He looked up at Alberto watching him and giggled. Alberto smiled back. When Rosa had asked Tino if he’d like to go away with his apu, he’d been thoughtful for a while, then asked if Papá would know he wasn’t there. His mother had said when he asked, she’d tell him Tino was on an adventure with Apu. At that, the boy had thought some more, then suddenly seemed to make a decision. Yes, he’d said, he wanted to go.
They’d organized the trip quickly, and although he was clearly a little anxious, Tino had chattered as he helped Alberto pack a lunch to eat on the train. Early the next morning, after an hour’s journey by bus, they had left the coast and reached the city. There, they bought tickets at the bustling station and found their train’s platform.
Alberto had travelled a few times by rail, but the sleek white train they boarded was like transportation that had been sent from the future. The seats were
comfortable, but the window was one large sealed unit that could not be opened. Alberto disliked the air-conditioning and felt ill at ease in the modern bullet shooting through the countryside. But the boy loved it and dashed from one window to the other, pointing out sights to his grandfather. There – a sunflower field. There – a church tower. There – a wind farm.
Alberto looked at the wind farm. Row upon row of tall white wind turbines slowly rotated against the backdrop of a cyan sky. Alberto remembered the old wooden windmill on a farm where he had worked when he was young. For a while, he trawled through his memories trying to locate where the farm had been, but he couldn’t remember. He shook his head – if he couldn’t remember facts from when he was a young man, how would he remember anything from his childhood?
Some time later, a metallic voice announced a station. Alberto leant over the boy and gently woke him. He had been exhausted by his excitement and had fallen asleep, his head leaning against the large window. Alberto gave him a nod and stood up, swinging his small bag over his shoulder.
As the train silently slowed to a standstill, they waited by the door, which suddenly slid open in front of them. Stepping out into the dry heat, Alberto took a deep breath and looked around. They were in a small town, but judging by the cranes all around, it would quickly become a larger one.
They walked along the platform as the train doors shut with a quiet clunk and the machine moved off with a hiss. They crossed the modern station of glass and brown brick, out onto the street. It was close to siesta time, so the streets were quiet, the shops pulling down their shutters.
Alberto walked over to a bus stop and squinted at the timetable behind the Perspex. When Tino came over to look, his grandfather showed him where they were going, and together they looked up the time. The bus was not regular, but luckily they only had half an hour to wait. They went back into the station, where a small cafe was open, and Alberto had a coffee, while the boy sucked chocolate milk through a straw. Then the boy took himself to the toilet and Alberto lit a cigarette. Watching Tino ambling back from the bathroom, looking in the counter at the ice creams and humming, the old man knew his decision to get away for a few days had been right.