decided to begin the campaign, though there was one detail - just one - still to be
resolved. In any case, it was a minor detail - the capture of a
distant fortress, where an exhausted enemy would take refuge
after being beaten on every occasion - and the general took
the liberty of concealing from his officers the fact that he had
not resolved it, hastening to open hostilities and confident that he would contrive a solution in the course of the short
war.
The campaign proceeded with such admirable conformity
to the general's plans that, in the end, it proved even shorter
than anticipated. In battle after battle his forces were victorious, and the enemy, subjugated by his implacable advance,
were reduced to a few heterogeneous companies, deprived
almost entirely of weapons and leaders, and fled to take refuge
in that isolated fortress, a long way from the border. So rapid
was their flight that the general had time only to pursue them,
but none to stop and think about how to conquer that last
redoubt.
When his army set up camp before the fortress, the general
summoned his captains and harangued them in the following
manner:
`Gentlemen, we are approaching the end of this war. You
have obeyed my orders implicitly and followed my plans
down to the last detail, and here you see the result: observe
our enemies, reduced to a hundredth part of what they were,
confined to a miserable fortress, unable to offer a dignified
resistance to the force of our arms. Miserable wretches, all that
awaits them is destruction. Go ahead, then, and consummate
it. This is the reward for your fortitude, your valour and your
skill in battle. Do not ask how it is to be achieved. I do not
wish to know; that is your decision. I wish to avert my gaze
from this bloody conclusion, and, moreover, I fear I underestimated the effort I would be forced to make and feel the
need for a rest, a long rest. So tomorrow when I rise - and I
shall rise late - I wish to see our flag flying from yonder tower.
That is all, gentlemen. Good night to you. I do not believe it
any part of my soldier's duty to wish you luck, for you have
no need of it. Yet good luck all the same, gentlemen. And
good night.'
Such was the general's ascendancy over his men that none
of his captains felt a need for his orders; his last word was
accepted as such and they prepared without hesitation to
place, at dawn, their country's flag on the tower in question.
At this point, the fable divides into two versions which in the end will become one; the most widely-known version
records the words of the general when he emerged from his
tent at noon the following day, refreshed by sleep. Seeing his
country's flag fluttering from the tower against a bright blue
sky, he exclaimed:
`It could not have been otherwise.'
The second version, more private and mysterious, also
records the words of the general when he emerged from his
tent at noon the following day, after a fitful night, to be confronted by the remnants of his defeated army lying at the foot
of the walls, and the enemy flag fluttering from the tower
against a bright blue sky.
He murmured to himself.
`It could not have been otherwise.'
© Herederos de Juan Benet
Translated by Annella McDermott
After a week without sun, September had once more opened
its sampler of colours and tints, and the weather, from on high,
had made a selection for that fleeting season which is the
prelude to autumn. The rains of the preceding week had
managed to obliterate all traces of summer, closing down the
refreshment stalls, carrying off the remains of picnics and
emptying the beach and its surroundings - the promontory
and the road left hanging in the pause of that sudden solitude,
like a schoolyard after the bell has gone, abruptly deprived of
the children's cries that give it its identity, the sea restored to
its eternal progress to nowhere, the constant commotion with
which it had attempted to
resolved. In any case, it was a minor detail - the capture of a
distant fortress, where an exhausted enemy would take refuge
after being beaten on every occasion - and the general took
the liberty of concealing from his officers the fact that he had
not resolved it, hastening to open hostilities and confident that he would contrive a solution in the course of the short
war.
The campaign proceeded with such admirable conformity
to the general's plans that, in the end, it proved even shorter
than anticipated. In battle after battle his forces were victorious, and the enemy, subjugated by his implacable advance,
were reduced to a few heterogeneous companies, deprived
almost entirely of weapons and leaders, and fled to take refuge
in that isolated fortress, a long way from the border. So rapid
was their flight that the general had time only to pursue them,
but none to stop and think about how to conquer that last
redoubt.
When his army set up camp before the fortress, the general
summoned his captains and harangued them in the following
manner:
`Gentlemen, we are approaching the end of this war. You
have obeyed my orders implicitly and followed my plans
down to the last detail, and here you see the result: observe
our enemies, reduced to a hundredth part of what they were,
confined to a miserable fortress, unable to offer a dignified
resistance to the force of our arms. Miserable wretches, all that
awaits them is destruction. Go ahead, then, and consummate
it. This is the reward for your fortitude, your valour and your
skill in battle. Do not ask how it is to be achieved. I do not
wish to know; that is your decision. I wish to avert my gaze
from this bloody conclusion, and, moreover, I fear I underestimated the effort I would be forced to make and feel the
need for a rest, a long rest. So tomorrow when I rise - and I
shall rise late - I wish to see our flag flying from yonder tower.
That is all, gentlemen. Good night to you. I do not believe it
any part of my soldier's duty to wish you luck, for you have
no need of it. Yet good luck all the same, gentlemen. And
good night.'
Such was the general's ascendancy over his men that none
of his captains felt a need for his orders; his last word was
accepted as such and they prepared without hesitation to
place, at dawn, their country's flag on the tower in question.
At this point, the fable divides into two versions which in the end will become one; the most widely-known version
records the words of the general when he emerged from his
tent at noon the following day, refreshed by sleep. Seeing his
country's flag fluttering from the tower against a bright blue
sky, he exclaimed:
`It could not have been otherwise.'
The second version, more private and mysterious, also
records the words of the general when he emerged from his
tent at noon the following day, after a fitful night, to be confronted by the remnants of his defeated army lying at the foot
of the walls, and the enemy flag fluttering from the tower
against a bright blue sky.
He murmured to himself.
`It could not have been otherwise.'
© Herederos de Juan Benet
Translated by Annella McDermott
After a week without sun, September had once more opened
its sampler of colours and tints, and the weather, from on high,
had made a selection for that fleeting season which is the
prelude to autumn. The rains of the preceding week had
managed to obliterate all traces of summer, closing down the
refreshment stalls, carrying off the remains of picnics and
emptying the beach and its surroundings - the promontory
and the road left hanging in the pause of that sudden solitude,
like a schoolyard after the bell has gone, abruptly deprived of
the children's cries that give it its identity, the sea restored to
its eternal progress to nowhere, the constant commotion with
which it had attempted to
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