Valley of Betrayal

by Tricia N. Goyer

  As of last month, a new announcement had been pinned to the bulletin board, signed by General von Richthofen himself. It reminded all concerned that the Condor Legion would only attack military targets; however, it should do so without regard for the civilian population.

  Of course, it really wasn't anything new. The standing order, oft repeated, was that if ever a target could not be hit because of foul weather, the bombs should be dropped anywhere over enemy territory.

  Better to take out future enemies than waste the bombs, Ritter thought, and in his mind he hoped for a roadway filled with fleeing troops—like those the reconnaissance planes had spotted near Guernica.

  He saw movement from the corner of his eye and turned toward the large fenced compound surrounded by Spanish soldiers. Inside the fence, like worker ants surrounding a colony, the ground crew were peeling back canvases to reveal mounds of bombs and ammunition. Once they uncovered it, they would sort out the armaments needed for the day's mission and carefully move them out on wagons for loading onto the planes.

  He had nearly reached the briefing room when a voice called out to him.

  "Herr Agler!" An office worker scurried toward him. "You asked me to find you as soon as mail arrived from Berlin."

  Ritter glanced at the first envelope and recognized his uncle's handwriting. Stuffing that into his pocket, he turned his attention to the second envelope, addressed in Isanna's familiar script. The grin lasted only a moment, however, replaced by a different heat. A fire of anger and disbelief coursed through him as the name in the upper left corner registered in his mind: Isanna von Herman.

  Isanna . . . had married. In the one month he had been out of communication, she had gone and married Xavier von Herman. Fury made it hard for him to breathe.

  Another officer approached, matching Ritter's stride as they reached the briefing room. He opened the door for Ritter. "Herr Agler, are you all right? Your eyes are red. Is your sight okay? Maybe you should sit this one out."

  "My sight? No, sir. I see better now than ever before. I want to do this. I need to do it, sir."

  He needed, more than anything, to feel the power of the plane. To vent his fury. To release the ache in his heart by focusing it on dutiful destruction. He crumbled the letter and stuffed it into his pocket. Someone would pay for his pain. If it weren't for the Reds and their insane fight, he'd be home now. He'd be married to Isanna.

  How could she have done it? Hadn't she wanted a hero? He'd fought for her.

  Ritter's gut tightened with frustration.

  He saw the same anxiety among the other pilots. Like bulls snorting to get into the arena, the men stalked around him restlessly. Long periods of bad weather had kept them grounded, and even the brothels and strong Spanish wine had lost their appeal.

  Ritter envied them their ignorance. They had remained in the skies, a barrier of air and clouds separating them from the people their bombs had destroyed. But he had experienced something they had not. For him, the enemy now had names and faces. Faces that visited him in his dreams as friends. Faces he longed to wipe away forever.

  Sometimes in the night, Ritter found himself awake and thinking of those who had carried him, injured and broken, to a warm and safe place. In the morning, he refused to linger on these thoughts. Instead, he kept his body moving, running in place, doing stretching exercises. Movement kept his mind focused, until his wounds ached. Then the memories came again—stabbing him even deeper than the pain in his leg.

  He cursed under his breath at the memory of Sophie's face. These women . . . they were demons sent to destroy him.

  He found a seat among the other pilots and tried to focus on the map.

  "As you can see here, three roads converge into one." The briefing officer held his pointer against a location on the map. "Just outside Guernica. They merge to a point where the Renteria Bridge crosses the river Mundaca." He adjusted his pointer's position. "It has been reported that enemy troops are retreating into—" The pointer circled a spot. "This area. If we let them gain a stronghold here, they will be difficult to dislodge. Do whatever it takes, men, to ensure that doesn't happen."

  Sophie kept herself busy assisting with the patients, wrapping bandages, sterilizing instruments—anything to keep her mind off Michael.

  As the new morning dawned, Deion brought her a cup of coffee and news from Guernica. "The town is filling with refugees, but it looks safe. I have your things loaded in the truck."

  "Thanks, Deion. Maybe I'll catch a few winks on the road. Walt knows too well how soundly I can sleep in a vehicle."

  "Oh, Walt isn't coming. Some officer needed him. He says to go on without him, and he'll meet us there." Deion rubbed his forehead. "And he left you a message. He says even after you talk to José, don't make any decisions until he gets back."

  Sophie rested her hands on her hips. "He said that, did he?"

  Deion laughed at her indignation. "Yes, he did. Can you be ready soon?"

  "Yes, Deion." Sophie took off the smock she wore to protect her clothes, refusing to live with lies any longer. "I'm ready now."

  Ritter had refused to rub his aching leg in the presence of the commander, lest he question the pilot's ability to fly. He'd hoped this would be the day of his return. Now he needed it to be so.

  He quickened his stride toward the airplanes tucked under the trees. Their branches flexed in the wind, confirming what he’d already known from the moment he awoke. The wind came from the south, along the runway—fine weather, flying weather. Killing weather.

  He moved through the checks, his jaw clenched. His eyes burned, but he refused to submit to his emotions.

  Ritter moved the flaps into position and flipped the mags on. The whine of a starter motor was interrupted by a loud popping as first one cylinder fired, then others in rapid succession. The exhaust's smoke and roar, and a spinning propeller signaled him that his killing machine was coming to life. The plane rocked on its landing gear, and when the engine smoothed out, he motioned for the ground crew to remove the wheel chocks. Finally, he released the brakes and taxied toward the runway. After running a pre-takeoff check, he positioned himself on the runway and advanced the throttle. The plane gained momentum rapidly and lifted gently into the air.

  There were three primary missions today, and all three would converge at the Rentería Bridge in Guernica.

  From his viewpoint on the mountainside, Father Manuel could see most of the old town, the streets clogged with peasants coming for market day. Tailors, ironworkers, weavers. The same type of craftsmen who had sold their goods during the six hundred years prior—soon after the city's birth—sold their wares today.

  He settled on the pine-needle floor, breathing in the new scent of wildflowers poking up at the first hints of spring. His view took in the candy factory, the industrial zone, and the growing residential area where young couples raised their children just as their ancestors had done for hundreds of years. And beyond all that, wide fields where it was said medieval knights had jousted, and where he and Armando had searched for spearheads in the hot summer sun.

  He had needed to get away. To think. He knew yesterday's words had little effect when last night he’d heard Guernica's town band warming up for the regular Sunday night dance in the main plaza. To hear the people's laughter and dancing gave him a small hint of the ache Moses must have felt on Mount Sinai as he heard the people's celebrations below. Not that he was comparing himself to the holy prophet, except that he now understood, in a small way, the weight of one's people's needs on one's shoulders. And worse yet, they were needs the people themselves refused to address.

  So, as the music played and the people danced, he’d done the only thing he knew to do. Last night at eight-thirty, the door had been unlocked by one of the nuns in the Convent of Santa Clara. Every evening at the same time they opened the door and accepted requests for prayer.

  Father Manuel had placed a folded piece of paper on the silver tray in the chapel, wondering how many of the
requests for healings, for safety, for hope had been answered over the years—and if his would be one of those.

  After that, he'd returned to the hospital area to help Sister Joséfina hang the last of the blackout curtains. He still hadn't slept; and as he sat in the woods to pray, he felt himself drifting off, until he could no longer tell if the prayers running through his head were part of his conscious thought or his dreams.

  By the time Father Manuel awoke to the sound of the church bells ringing, warning of incoming planes, the sun had faded on the horizon, filtering through the pine trees. He wasn't sure what time it was, but from the farmers and traders packed into the central marketplace, exchanging their cattle and produce, he assumed it was midafternoon.

  He stood and watched the people below heading for cover in cellars, under bridges, and in prepared dugouts. He ran down the hill as fast as his legs would carry him, knowing the Sisters were most likely in a panic, attempting to do the best they could to create a safe place for those in their care.

  Before he reached the base of the mountain, the first German bomber passed low as if the airmen inside were locating the targets below. It took only a moment to pass over the town. Then the plane banked wide, circled the town, and made another pass. This time, however, twelve shiny bombs fell from the plane's bomb bay. They fell in a tight cluster toward the railroad station and plaza. Another strike blew the front off the Julian Hotel, exposing four floors. A cry caught in Father's Manuel's throat at the sight.

  Fernando Vegal, one of Manuel's most faithful parishioners, stood in the field just outside of town, his head lifted to the sky in disbelief as a plane swooped low toward him.

  Father Manuel ran toward the field. "Fernando, get down! To the ground, now!" He waved his arms and ran toward the man, cursing the heavy robe that weighed him down. The patter of machine gun fire stopped Father Manuel in his tracks, and he dove onto the ground as he used to dive into the river as a boy.

  His ears echoed from the sound of the explosions and the crumbling houses and buildings. The cries of the people—his people, his Lord's people—seemed to rip his heart from his chest. And the continuous pealing of the church bells warned of more to come.

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Quien a buen árbol se arrima buena sombra le cobija.

  If you lean against a good tree you will be protected

  by a good shadow.

  Spanish proverb

  Ritter's He.51 seemed to crawl through the sky. He cursed, wanting to get to Guernica and finish the job. Ahead, he finally spotted the target and watched as the first bomber swooped down, dropping six 500-pound bombs. Five minutes later, a second bomber. After that, three Junkers, until finally a steady stream populated the sky.

  Ritter nudged his control stick forward. Sweeping down, he eased his plane right until his gun sight bore down on scurrying forms. He squeezed the machine gun's trigger, satisfied with the pounding recoil passing through the airframe. Bullets—synchronized to fire through the propeller—released on them like rain.

  The people in the town below—young, old, women, children—ran from dugouts in panic, and he took aim. The way they crumbled to the ground reminded Ritter of hitting pinecones on the back fence.

  A cloud of smoke and grit rose so thick over the town that Ritter knew the bombers to follow would have to fly even lower to distinguish the town from the countryside. He flew lower until he was able to make out the people's panicked faces, glancing over their shoulders as they tried to run from his approach.

  He laughed as he watched the people suffer indecision, running hither and thither, then back to the dugouts' false security. The targets failed to realize the bombers would come yet again. Like a Wagnerian opera, a certain rhythm would soon be established—one the German officers had thought through with care. First, bombs to draw the targets out. Then, machine guns to drive them below. Finally, incendiary bombs to burn them alive.

  Ritter laughed again, but for the first time, with his laughter came tears. Wiping them from his face, he swung alongside the trucks that rumbled on the mountain road toward the town.

  Sophie was jerked awake by the truck slamming on its brakes. Her head slammed against the glass window. "Ouch, Deion. What is it?"

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she recognized the droning of aircraft. The same sounds that filled her ears day and night in Madrid had followed her here.

  "An air raid, Sophie. We need to take cover."

  They were only a few miles out of town, on a hillside looking into the valley. She gasped as she clearly saw the Nazi insignia on the planes' wings. They filled the sky, bombers and fighter planes too.

  "What are they doing? This isn't Madrid. It's just some sleepy village in the middle of nowhere."

  "They're destroying it; that's what they're doing."

  "We have to do something. Look . . ." Sophie pointed to a large building with a red cross on the roof. A bomb had struck it, crumbling one of the corners. "Even the hospitals! They're bombing the hospitals."

  Deion parked the truck as far off the side of the road as he could manage. "I know what we got to do. Get out of the truck."

  "What?" Sophie's eyes widened.

  "We can't go into the town; that would be crazy. And if we head back, we'll be too big of a target on the road."

  "So we're just going to stand here and watch?"

  "No, ma'am. You're going to shoot them pictures with whatever film you have left, and then you're goin' to paint."

  Sophie's heart pounded, and her hands trembled like the lone leaf left on a branch. "There's no way I can do that."

  Deion turned toward her, and she saw tears welling in his eyes.

  "I seen some awful things in my time, Sophie—people killed just 'cause they're colored. Killed in the most awful ways you can imagine. And no one listened or cared." His voice caught in his throat. "I saw my own father strung up on the hillside behind our home. He didn't do nothing to nobody. Was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

  Deion took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. "If we go running down there, Sophie, we can't do a thing, and we'd likely get ourselves killed doin' it. But the people down there—" He pointed to the town that was exploding in flames as they spoke. Even from the distance, people's cries floated up the hillside. "They need you to speak for them. You can tell their stories through your pictures."

  Tears streamed down Sophie's face, but she squared her shoulders. She looked through the viewfinder and focused on a church in flames. Then she took another photo of people filling the roads, running out of town. She jumped as an aircraft swooped into her view . . . a fighter plane machine-gunned the people down as they ran.

  Dear God. . .

  Then the plane banked in a wide arc, turning toward them. It flew so low, Sophie gasped as she spotted the goggled man in the cockpit. Behind the gun sight, his eye aligned perfectly with her, and he grinned. Sophie closed her eyes and waited, fully expecting bullets to rip into her body. But when she opened them again, she saw the plane had turned and continued back toward the town.

  "Deion, did you see that? I know that pilot spotted us. Why didn't he shoot? And look, he's leaving. The other planes are coming in, and he's flying against them, heading back."

  "Your job is to paint, Sophie. I decided mine is to pray."

  Sophie turned to him. "Pray? I thought you didn't believe in God."

  "I didn't know for myself till one minute ago, but how can I deny that? God spared us. It had to be God."

  As the bombs fell, injured people filled the reception area of the Carmelite convent. The roar of bombers filled the sky, and Father Manuel knelt before the crowds, praying for them all. If the convent took a hit, then at least he wanted to know they'd meet their Maker together.

  Before him, the broken people cried out for help. A woman whose arm had been torn from her body. A man whose legs were riddled with bullets. A child with burns covering her body. Their cries filled his ears.

>   "Padre, Padre, come . . . I'm dying. Father, bless me."

  He also prayed for those still in the center of town, caught in the dense bombing. The thunder of explosions pummeled his ears, split seconds after the flashes of light. The earth trembled continually.

  By seven o'clock the droning of the airplanes ceased, and he walked down the street to inspect the damage. Gone were the roof tiles, wooden porches, and half-timbered houses. Slowly, more people emerged from shattered doorways, stupor on their faces, and Father Manuel found it hard to believe anyone had survived.

  More people staggered to the convent, seeking medical care, and just when he thought they'd seen the worst, the sound of aircraft came again. Father Manuel glanced up to see another wave of airplanes racing toward the town at a high altitude. From the moment the bombs began falling, he guessed what they were. Incendiary bombs. In seconds, the entire town would erupt like a furnace.

  "Dear God," he muttered. "It wasn't enough to destroy the city; now they've chosen to burn the evidence."

  An orange glow on the horizon, as bright as the sun's morning rays, lit the path to Guernica. Even the clouds hovering over the distant mountains glowed as they reflected the flames. As the truck approached, it seemed the whole city was alight from end to end.

  The fleeing masses clogged the road. Antique farm carts, pulled by oxen, carried their occupants to Bilbao. They'd survived the destruction, but Sophie could tell from their faces they hadn't escaped the horror.

  Low hammering sounds in the distance were carried along on the treetops. Sophie knew they were sounds of artillery fire that interrupted the peaceful stillness of the morning. The ground battle neared.

  In the town itself hardly a building stood, and not one roof remained. Piles of rubble blocked every road. Trees were now charred stumps. Automobiles had been catapulted and lay scattered on top of the rubble.