Yellow grass scrunched underfoot as they passed the monastery. The sun’s heat bore down on them, drenching their clothes with sweat. The dark maw and cool shadows of the splintered door tempted them. It had been days since they’d enjoyed decent shelter. Their exodus across the Spanish countryside had been long.
“Can we go in?” Allen Winston asked. His Texan drawl produced an irritating whine that put Rodgers on edge.
“Helen of Troy leaves at Ten AM tomorrow morning. If we’re not on it, we’re fucked. Might as well turn back and hand ourselves into Franco ourselves,” Rodgers replied.
Allen had been pissing him off all month. Freshly nineteen, the wax on the candles of his birthday cake hadn’t even dried before he took his father’s rifle and booked a ticket to Spain. He had no concept of the reality of war and had made that abundantly clear every time he opened his mouth.
“There might be a well we can use to fill our bottles,” Helena chimed in, adding to Rodgers’ irritation
“Or medical supplies,” Molly added.
Rodgers narrowed his eyes at the nurses. The clock ticked in his mind, counting down the seconds until it would be too late and they’d have to risk the journey to the French border, across miles of Fascist territory. He’d seen enough to know that the prospect of capture was one he did not wish to entertain.
“We don’t have time,” he said between gritted teeth.
Helena took him aside and spoke in a hushed tone. The smell of sweat mixed with the floral tones of what remained of her perfume. It distracted him, briefly, returning him to lazy Spanish nights. Bloody nurses, Rodgers thought.
“Listen, if we don’t stop to rest, some of these men are going to drop dead,” she said, nodding her head at the column of walking wounded.
“You said they’d survive the journey,” Rodgers hissed.
“I said they’re the ones who might survive,” she clarified. “Some of them shouldn’t be out of bed let alone marching across Spain.”
“Well, maybe you should have given them some morphine like the rest of the invalids.”
Helena fixed Rodgers with a stern look and he immediately back-tracked and admitted he went too far. They both decided to ignore the niggling recollections of the men they’d abandoned in the dirt on the way there. No use testing the unstable balance they’d formed to make it to the boats alive. They’d accepted the risk when they agreed to abandon the hospital when it was clear the fascist wave was coming and there were no reinforcements in sight. Better to die making a break for salvation than shot in a hospital bed. It didn’t change the fact that they didn’t have time to waste exploring abandoned churches.
Sighing, Rodgers shook his head and glanced pleadingly at Frederick Bronson, his second-in-command and strongest ally. When Frederick shrugged his shoulders, his dark sweaty skin glistening in the sun, Rodgers knew he had lost.
“Et tu brute,” he muttered under his breath before slinging his rifle and nodding sharply at Helena. They had permission to enter the monastery.
“Half an hour,” he called to the shuffling collum. “All wounded please rest, everyone else start foraging. If you’re not back by 10:37 we’re leaving without you,” he continued, noting the time on his watch.
Inside, the church was chaos. Sunlight barged into the nave through a jagged hole in the ceiling. Directly beneath the hole, an unexploded bomb stood with its tail in the air. No one dared move with it there so it fell unto Rodgers to pick his way through the debris and inspect it.
Shards of coloured glass crunched underfoot like a pebble beach. Images of Christ, the Virgin, and Gabriel turned to shattered nothingness. Sweat pooled on the top of his lip as he approached the bomb knowing that one wrong move and they were all dead.
He reached the bomb and used the tip of his bayonet to unscrew the panel on its side, revealing its inner workings. If he’d had a torch he would have been able to see better but what he could see gave him reason to pause.
With a cautious, steady hand, he reached into the bomb and pulled out a slip of paper. It read “No Pasáran!”
Letting out a heavy sigh of relief, Rodgers laughed and gave the bomb a rough kick. The others in the church gasped and cowered for the expected explosion before slowly getting to their feet as Rodgers waved them in.
“Looks like we still have some comrades somewhere,” he said, passing the note to Frederick.
Frederick smiled.
“Makes it almost worth it.”
Rodgers frowned.
“Almost,” he replied walking back toward the door. “Go with Allen to see what you can forage. Keep a close eye on him, I don’t want him meddling with things he shouldn’t, I’ll stand guard.”
Frederick gave a half salute and took Allen away.
As Rodgers stood in the doorway looking onto the Spanish countryside, Helena and Molly set to work tending to the wounded. Molly found a first-aid kit in a storage room and they combined it with their own supplies so they could redress some of the men’s wounds.
Rodgers listened to them work, chattering about the baths they would have when they returned to England. A red deer came into view, its exceptional coat glistening in the Spanish sun. Rodgers watched it with growing hunger. It was big enough for all of them to eat their fill and have enough leftover for breakfast. Wordlessly, he raised his rifle and peered down the sights.
The deer was far but Rodgers was a keen shot so he knew he could make it. He just needed to be patient and wait for the right moment.
Taking slow, steady breaths, he aligned the sight with the centre of the deer’s body. His finger curled around the trigger, slowly squeezing until he was sure the shot was true.
The deer’s head rose, its ears turned in alarm, before it dashed away.
“Shit,” Rodgers said and lowered his rifle. In the aftermath of the botched sniping, he became aware of what had spooked his prey. The roar of engines steadily grew louder, rising into a cacophonous din.
“Nobody move!” he yelled, staring wide at the hole in the ceiling, certain that at any moment a second bomb would fall through the roof to do what the first had failed to.
Helena and Molly froze in the middle of re-dressing a soldier’s leg.
The glass in the windows that were still intact rattled as the planes approached adding their xylophonic tones to the chaotic orchestra.
A squadron of Junkers appeared through the hole, filling the skies with Iron Crosses and dread. Rodgers clamped a hand over his mouth and tried not to think of Guernica. He did not breathe lest a single exhale trigger the bomb bay doors to open and release their terrible payload.
The engine’s roar receded. The rattling settled. No bombs fell on their heads.
Still, they remained frozen. In fear that it might be some kind of trick, a new plane that could turn its engines off to lure out enemies before mowing them down. It was only when the pock-pock of anti-aircraft guns resounded in the distance that Rodgers dared return to his spot at the door to see what was happening.
Above a distant mountain peak, the Junkers circled. Anti-aircraft fire unfurled blossoming flowers of smoke and shrapnel with no effect. The gates of hell unfurled and dozens of bombs dropped in steady streams from the planes. A moment of silence then the mountain rose in a pillar of smoke, debris and horror. The sound of the explosions came a moment later, a deafening rumble. As the dust settled, the planes veered away to return home.
The bombers’ devastation must not have been final for a single anti-aircraft gun resumed its fire. In a moment it had zeroed on one of the retreating hulks and the plane’s tail erupted in flames.
With a dull whine like a kettle coming to boil, the plane fell toward them. Just as it looked as if the plane was headed straight for them, the nose dropped into the ground in a burst of dust.
As the burning carcass of the bomber skidded to a halt, the shockwave of the crash hit them, knocking Rodgers onto his arse and causing some of the looser window panes to fall from their fittings.
When the scene settled, Rodgers rose to his feet and went back inside, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“That was close,” he said with a relieved laugh.
Helena and Molly hung their head for a moment’s respite before they continued bandaging their patient. There was no time to rest.
Rodgers rolled a cigarette with what remained of his shitty Spanish tobacco when there came a thunderous crack. Rodgers slowly turned, his tongue still stuck to the cigarette paper and watched as the bomb slowly sunk into the floor. This was followed by the groan of straining metal like the hull of a ship holding back the sea. A firework burst and the sound of rushing water was all the warning they had before the bomb completely fell through the floor.
For a brief moment, they feared that, despite knowing it was impossible, the bomb would go off and blow them all to smithereens.
The explosion did not come, of course, it didn’t. Rodgers collapsed onto one of the pews and wondered why he ever chose to come to Spain. He’d all ready survived one war, did he really have to go through another? After running his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, he looked into his palm and saw grey hairs stuck to his palm.
Not long after he’d taken a seat, Frederick bounded into the room and came up next to him. Rodgers obstinately kept his eyes closed.
“Whatever it is, it can wait,” Rodgers said, lighting his cigarette without opening his eyes.
“It’s Allen, sir. He’s hurt,” Frederick replied.
Rodgers’ lips pressed into a thin grimace and he got up from the pew.
They descended a set of spiral stairs into a cool cellar. Helena followed, sensing that her skills would be needed. The sound of rushing water grew stronger with every step deeper.
Rodgers trod into ankle-deep water as he entered the cellar. Bits of broken barrels floated in the rushing water. The bomb stood in the centre of the room with Allen lying with his legs beneath it, his blood mixed with the water giving the bomb a pink halo.
The young man looked up at Rodgers with a wincing smile.
“Hello sir, “ he said through the pain. “I’ve gotten into some trouble I think.”
Rodgers stared agog at the scene, struggling to take it all in. It looked like something you’d see in a Laurel and Hardy sketch, the irony of being hit with a bomb that couldn’t explode. After a moment, he waded up to Allen and knelt beside him.
“Block that pipe,” he barked at Frederick before turning to focus his full attention on Allen. “How are you feeling? Can you move your legs?”
Allen winced and shook his head.
“Well that’s all right Allen we’re gonna get you out of here in no time just sit tight.”
Allen shrugged, his head lulling deliriously.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Helena,” Rodgers croaked.
The nurse took her shoes off and placed them at the step before stepping in and walking toward them.
“What do you think?” he asked, desperation in his voice. “I reckon Frederick and I can lift the bomb and–”
Helena fixed Rodger with a sad, serious look. She rose and took Rodgers aside.
“It wouldn’t make a difference. There’s no way we’d be able to move him.”
Rodgers let out a pained squeak. In that moment, every instance of derision and thinly veiled annoyance that he’d ever thrown at Allen returned. Why had he done that? He was just a kid, he didn’t know any better. All he needed was a little guidance. And Rodgers had treated him like a nuisance. Parasitic regret churned in his stomach.
“We could amputate. And Frederick and I–”
“Rodgers no. There’s no chance.”
Rodgers frowned. A flurry of emotions played beneath the surface of his stoic expression. He’d seen so many die under his command. In the war to end all wars and this stupid ideological hell he’d been tangled into.
Sighing, Rodgers whispered to Helena as Allen softly whimpered.
“All right, so what do we do shoot him full of morphine.”
Helena shook her head.
“We ran out of morphine four days ago.”
Rodgers’ body trembled. He had expected that answer but it didn’t make it any easier to bear. He knew what he had to do. It was only a matter of finding the strength to do it.
Frederick succeeded in stopping the water and the room filled with an eerie silence.
“All right, Frederick, take Helena and find some rope. We’re going to pull the bomb up through the hole.”
“Yes, sir,” Frederick said.
Helena looked at Rodgers funny. Rodgers responded with a stern look and put his hand on his pistol. Understanding dawned and Helena went upstairs with a nod and a sympathetic glance.
They were alone. Rodgers and Allen. Water dripped from the pipe slowly.
“How’re you feeling?” Rodgers asked again as he drew his pistol out of Allen’s sight.
“I feel a bit drowsy,” Allen replied.
Rodgers cocked the pistol.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I think I need some sleep.”
“You do that Allen. Hey, you never told me what kind of cake you had on your birthday before you decided to join up.”
A delirious smile passed Allen’s clammy lips.
“Chocolate,” he said in an awed hush, “My mom’s speciality.”
Rodgers whimpered and his arm faltered. How many times had he heard men talk about their mothers in their final moments? All with the same weary longing. He never got used to it. Biting his lips, he forced his eyes open and aimed his pistol again.
“I’m sorry Allen. You never should have been here.”
Allen twisted to look at Rodgers but before he could turn fully Rodgers fired. Allen’s body went limp, floating in the shallow water with his legs pinned to the ground. Rodgers holstered his pistol, wiped his eyes and left the cellar. They needed to move on. Time was of the essence.
By Joseph Marsh