International Brigade, Spain, 1937	The Due South Fiction Archive
Entry	  Home

 Quicksearch
 Search Engine
 Random Story

 Upload Story

      	  International Brigade, Spain, 1937 
 by Sage  

 Author's Notes: Thanks to __fallen for looking it over; written for the
Genre challenge at ds_flashfiction (genre = war story).

 Story Notes: Warning: violent, disturbing content. 

 

 

 Ray fell to his knees, ears ringing, as his stomach turned over. He
spewed vomit into the dust until nothing was left but bile. The noonday
sun beat down and he spat out the foul taste, wiping his watering eyes,
his dripping nose. Someone handed him a wineskin and he aimed a jet of it
into his mouth, swished, and spat again.

 "Didn't I tell you to get off the line, Kowalski?" Ray set his jaw and
steeled himself for an argument, but Welsh had already moved on, shouting,
"Come on, men, get it together! Huey, take that side. Fraser, get over to
the eastern side and take Kowalski with you. Get him upwind of this mess."

 "Yes, sir," Fraser answered, offering Ray a hand up. Ray grunted his
thanks, picked up his rifle, and set off toward the east end of the plaza.
The day was sweltering, but the breeze blowing down off the mountains
brought no relief. It was only more hot and dry added to it all...but at
least it was upwind. Ray figured one day he'd get used to it--he'd grown
up in the meat-packing district, after all, but this. God in heaven, these
were people. Not other soldiers, but innocent old men and young boys:
everyday, unarmed, innocent people. And yeah, the meatpackers smelled like
blood, no matter how many tons of ice they hauled in, but this. Blood and
shit and piss and rot, and now vomit, too. It had splashed back onto his
knees and his shirtsleeves, mottling the dust and dried mud and battle
gore.

 There were dozens of them, men and boys, stripped of their clothes and
all with their privates cut off. He'd held it together til they'd found
one alive, a kid no more than twelve. He was in shock, nearly dead. They
thought he was dead until they tried to move him and he screamed like the
devil had him.

 Welsh did it, in the end, to keep them from having to draw straws. The
medics were too far off, and didn't have the morphine to spare anyway. The
report echoed through the plaza, bouncing off the flat faces of the
buildings on all four sides, and that's...that's when he lost it. With the
sound of the shot ringing loud in his ears, just like the boy's screams.

 Now Fraser was at his elbow, pointing two fingers at the support columns
and front alcoves of the regional police station. Thompson and Morales
were up ahead at the post office, while the rest of the unit was sifting
through the wreckage of the Banco de Espaa across the blood-muddy square
behind them. Downwind. Fraser gave him a look, grim-faced and
professional, and Ray nodded back. Like it or not, there was a job to do.

 He and Fraser cleared the building lickity split. They were good at this,
at least. On the roof they scanned for snipers through their field glasses
and Fraser put his hand on Ray's arm and said, "Wait a moment, will you?"
He took a chunk of bread out of his pack and held it out to Ray.

 "I'm fine," Ray said.

 "It'll help."

 "Yeah, well, just because I tossed my cookies doesn't mean you gotta
treat me like a baby, Fraser." Ray felt himself turning red with anger.
Who did Fraser think he was, anyhow?

 "Ray, you're hardly the only one." Fraser clapped him on the shoulder and
shoved the bread into his hand. "Take it. We won't get another meal until
sundown."

 The chunk of bread was stale in his hand, but he didn't see any mold. 

 Sometimes it could really get on a guy's nerves how Fraser was always
right. Ray guessed maybe it was some kind of Canadian thing, like
everybody in their unit had their odd quirks. They had Americans, Brits,
French, Pollacks, Russians, and even a Chinaman with them. All kinds of
people from all kinds of places, some of them Communists, some of them
thrill-seekers, far too many bohemians who'd never stand a chance in a
good old Chicago street-fight, but they all hated the Fascists enough to
kill and die for it, and so finally Ray stopped grinding his teeth and
gave Fraser a short nod and said, "Thanks."

 Then he put a piece of the stale crust in his mouth to suck on and led
the way back down through the empty police station to the street. There
was still a school to check, and after that, the church, and after that,
there were a hell of a lot of candles to be lit for the dead. 

 He wondered if they'd find the priest. Then, as the sound of Lt. Welsh's
voice drifted toward them, he wondered if they already had.  
  

End International Brigade, Spain, 1937 by Sage 

Author and story notes above.  

Please post a comment on this story.