14.12.2009, 08:07
The night was warm and sticky, typical of the late summer, with the quiet chirping of crickets adding to the ambience of my first Spanish night at the field. Unable to sleep, both due to the humid air and my excitement, I decided to take a stroll.
Most of the camp had retired for the evening. Here and there I heard conversations in tents, sometimes a shared joke or the loss of cash in a late night game of cards by lamplight, sometimes no more than the snoring of men who somehow managed to find some sleep. A few soldiers paced wearily here and there, one trying a bottle left by the fireside in the hope there was something to be had from it, throwing it aside into the grass when it became clear it was already discarded.
I reached the line of fighters. It was difficult to see them in the dark, for although the sky was wonderfully clear and full of stars, the ground was pitch black. In the dim light from unattended camp fires I could see the outline of the fuselage and wings, the ribbed control surfaces covered with doped linen made three dimensional in long shadows. I approached the nearest aeroplane and touched it. Such an inanimate object, yet one that would spring to life tomorrow, flying to war and facing combat against enemy aeroplanes amongst the clouds.
There was a shout. A rifle shot broke the spell of the evening. I saw three guards running toward me and realised I had sparked an alert. My feeble attempts to placate them made no difference. As they arrived and shouted at me, one smacked my legs with a rifle butt and brought me down. They didn't listen and I couldn't understand their insistent demands for who knows what. Not that it mattered. I couldn't have made myself heard.
At last another figure strode out toward me. Silhouetted in firelight I saw a figure in jackboots and an officers uniform, calmly placing his cap upon his head. Most of the guards snapped to attention, with at least one holding me in place, a pointless exercise since I couldn't run with that bruising.
The guards quickly explained the situation to the officer, who gave a quiet order. Another guard ensured I was held on my knees, one pulling my head back with a rough grip on my hair. It was the officer who spoke to me, asking a question I couldn't understand, breaking open his revolver to check it was loaded, snapping it shut, then asking his question again, adding something in a tone that sounded like a warning.
It dawned on me I was about to suffer a summary execution. They thought I was a saboteur! Harry had warned me these men were trigger happy and how scared I was to discover he was right.
From the left another man ran into view. It was Harry James, stripped to the waist, woken by the commotion and trying to stop this Spaniard from ending my little adventure in ignomy on the very first night. They exchanged words, Harry pleading, placating, the officer shaking his head and gesturing at me. At last the officer was silent, and Harry bent down to talk to me.
"You are one crazy son of a bitch. This guy behind me is Berentes. Emilio Berentes. The Commandant. You remember that name, Son. He likes wine, sleazy girls, and shooting idiots like you... Look, I've persuaded him not to shoot you tonight. But he says you've broken the rules."
The officer said something in a flat tone, a reminder, urging Harry to finish his conversation.
"Sorry Son. This is going to hurt you pretty bad. Nothin' I can do anything about that."
Harry stood back and the beating began.
Most of the camp had retired for the evening. Here and there I heard conversations in tents, sometimes a shared joke or the loss of cash in a late night game of cards by lamplight, sometimes no more than the snoring of men who somehow managed to find some sleep. A few soldiers paced wearily here and there, one trying a bottle left by the fireside in the hope there was something to be had from it, throwing it aside into the grass when it became clear it was already discarded.
I reached the line of fighters. It was difficult to see them in the dark, for although the sky was wonderfully clear and full of stars, the ground was pitch black. In the dim light from unattended camp fires I could see the outline of the fuselage and wings, the ribbed control surfaces covered with doped linen made three dimensional in long shadows. I approached the nearest aeroplane and touched it. Such an inanimate object, yet one that would spring to life tomorrow, flying to war and facing combat against enemy aeroplanes amongst the clouds.
There was a shout. A rifle shot broke the spell of the evening. I saw three guards running toward me and realised I had sparked an alert. My feeble attempts to placate them made no difference. As they arrived and shouted at me, one smacked my legs with a rifle butt and brought me down. They didn't listen and I couldn't understand their insistent demands for who knows what. Not that it mattered. I couldn't have made myself heard.
At last another figure strode out toward me. Silhouetted in firelight I saw a figure in jackboots and an officers uniform, calmly placing his cap upon his head. Most of the guards snapped to attention, with at least one holding me in place, a pointless exercise since I couldn't run with that bruising.
The guards quickly explained the situation to the officer, who gave a quiet order. Another guard ensured I was held on my knees, one pulling my head back with a rough grip on my hair. It was the officer who spoke to me, asking a question I couldn't understand, breaking open his revolver to check it was loaded, snapping it shut, then asking his question again, adding something in a tone that sounded like a warning.
It dawned on me I was about to suffer a summary execution. They thought I was a saboteur! Harry had warned me these men were trigger happy and how scared I was to discover he was right.
From the left another man ran into view. It was Harry James, stripped to the waist, woken by the commotion and trying to stop this Spaniard from ending my little adventure in ignomy on the very first night. They exchanged words, Harry pleading, placating, the officer shaking his head and gesturing at me. At last the officer was silent, and Harry bent down to talk to me.
"You are one crazy son of a bitch. This guy behind me is Berentes. Emilio Berentes. The Commandant. You remember that name, Son. He likes wine, sleazy girls, and shooting idiots like you... Look, I've persuaded him not to shoot you tonight. But he says you've broken the rules."
The officer said something in a flat tone, a reminder, urging Harry to finish his conversation.
"Sorry Son. This is going to hurt you pretty bad. Nothin' I can do anything about that."
Harry stood back and the beating began.