Alberto's Lost Birthday (5 page)

‘Do you not receive extra rations, Father?’ I ask, puzzled.

‘What I receive, I share,’ says the priest piously. ‘There are others in more need than myself, and I am more than content with chicory.’

‘Never mind the chicory,’ I snap. I am becoming annoyed at this confounding behaviour. ‘What do you know of the
Rojos
’ movements in the area? Will they find
support in this village?’

‘I’m afraid I have no news to tell of Republicans in this area, Captain,’ says the priest, tight-lipped.

‘Father, I am sure you are aware of your obligation to tell me of any
Rojo
activity here,’ I nudge. I sense his reluctance to divulge information.

Taking a deep breath, the priest speaks quietly. ‘Captain, as all over Spain, this village is split. Families, friends and neighbours have been divided by allegiances to one side or the
other. The young men have all left to fight. The elderly and women who remain do not voice their loyalties, but fear and distrust lie close to the surface. Just yesterday, we had to pull apart two
sisters who would have gouged each other’s eyes out if left to fight. Their husbands joined opposing armies, and—’

‘This country is at war, Father,’ I interrupt. I am not interested in tattle tales of his villagers, and I will not be drawn into a discussion about some women. ‘Just tell me
what you know about the enemy’s movements around here.’

The priest looks at me, his face set. ‘There have been rumours that the fighting is drawing near, but I know nothing more. In my services, I continue to pray for a conclusion to the war
and a lasting peace for the people of this country.’

‘I assume that you are praying for a glorious victory for the
generalísimo
.’ I scowl at him. I am growing suspicious of this priest. Could it be that he is a
collaborator?

‘I do not feel it is my place to take sides. I only know that I am a follower of Christ the Lord,’ he replies softly.

As the man talks, I feel a rage stir in me.

‘Father,’ I say, seething, ‘must I remind you, of all people, of the attacks on the Church, and the brutality shown to Catholic priests? The Nationalists stand with the Spanish
Church. Together, we will repel this evil.’

‘Sir,’ replies the priest quietly, ‘my position in this village is to support my flock through these difficult times. My only weapon is the word of the Lord. In His glory He
tells us to strive for peace, He teaches us that wisdom is better than the weapons of war, and—’

As he speaks, the fury in me rises and I shout at him, ‘How dare you preach at me! I have personally seen the bodies of men and women who were buried alive – their only crime being
their faith in God. I have seen the ruins of churches where Catholics were locked inside, burnt to death as Republican firefighters looked on. Thousands of your brethren have been murdered and you
speak the words of a pacifist! Do their deaths mean nothing to you?’

‘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 front 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.