minutes,” he said. “First we will eat, have a smoke, tend to our rifles. Remember, this is a reconnaissance patrol, so if we see these bastards don’t shoot them, stay hidden. After we go out the door, no talking. Quiet … very quiet. Questions?”
One of the men said, “And which bastards are these?”
“The battalion commanders want to know that. They believe we face the Moors, or possibly legionnaires.” He meant Franco’s Moorish mercenaries from Morocco, or members of the Spanish Legion, something like the French Foreign Legion, which Franco had expanded by emptying the prisons. At the mention of the word “legionnaires” the man who had asked the question turned his head and spat.
Romar was well respected by his men. Two years earlier, when the war started, he’d been an eighteen-year-old mechanic at a textile mill in Barcelona and, when half the army joined up with Franco, the government had armed the labor unions, creating anarchist and socialist militias, who worked out their political differences by shooting each other. Now the government had absorbed the militias into the army, and some of the militiamen, like Romar, turned out to be natural officers who led well.
Outside, the main street of Teruel lay in ruins. A month of artillery fire and bombing had smashed the buildings into piles of bricks. There was no trace of wooden beams or furniture, every scrap of wood in Teruel had been burned in fires as the soldiers attempted to stay warm, to stay alive. On both sides of the street were snow-coveredstacks of frozen corpses—four thousand soldiers and civilians had tried to defend the town from the Republic’s attack, now they were dead.
Romar led his company toward the western edge of Teruel—his guess was he’d find the enemy about a thousand yards beyond the town. They walked in single file, every few minutes Romar rotated the men at the head of the line, who sank in the snow up to their knees as they broke trail for the company. By the time they reached the end of the street, the company was exhausted, their faces past numbness, burning with cold. Even in the blizzard the darkness had begun to wane as the dawn arrived.
Then, from the southwest, a muffled boom. “Mierda,” Romar said under his breath. This was, he suspected, Italian artillery, one of Mussolini’s contributions to the fascist cause. There was another report, and another, as the barrage progressed. Which way was it walking? In the distance, the snow exploded and Romar called out “Down!” The men lay flat for a time, but that was as much as they saw—the barrage continued for twenty minutes, then stopped. The men were, for the moment, safe, but the barrage was likely being used to soften up the defenders for an advance by infantry, so the counterattack was real.
The company walked for another ten minutes and then, as the forest on the edge of town came into view, Romar signaled and again they went flat. That’s where the enemy would be hiding. Of course Romar could barely see the forest through the swirling snow, to him it was more like a gray shadow. For a time, he waited to see what might come out of the tree line. Another barrage started up, this one well away to the north. Romar was about to wave his men forward when a soldier came running from the forest. One of Romar’s men fired twice but the man kept running, then he was joined by others, struggling through the snow, some falling then getting up, some had thrown away their rifles.
Romar held up a hand, stop firing . For this was not an advance by the Moors or the Legion, and this was not an organized retreat—this was headlong flight in panic. One of the running soldiers saw Romar’s company and waved violently, go back , then called out, “Get away! Save yourselves!” Romar’s company stayed where it was as the last men in flight disappeared in the direction of the town. Then they saw a group of men in Moroccan caps, rifles ready, move out of the trees.
One of the men said, “And which bastards are these?”
“The battalion commanders want to know that. They believe we face the Moors, or possibly legionnaires.” He meant Franco’s Moorish mercenaries from Morocco, or members of the Spanish Legion, something like the French Foreign Legion, which Franco had expanded by emptying the prisons. At the mention of the word “legionnaires” the man who had asked the question turned his head and spat.
Romar was well respected by his men. Two years earlier, when the war started, he’d been an eighteen-year-old mechanic at a textile mill in Barcelona and, when half the army joined up with Franco, the government had armed the labor unions, creating anarchist and socialist militias, who worked out their political differences by shooting each other. Now the government had absorbed the militias into the army, and some of the militiamen, like Romar, turned out to be natural officers who led well.
Outside, the main street of Teruel lay in ruins. A month of artillery fire and bombing had smashed the buildings into piles of bricks. There was no trace of wooden beams or furniture, every scrap of wood in Teruel had been burned in fires as the soldiers attempted to stay warm, to stay alive. On both sides of the street were snow-coveredstacks of frozen corpses—four thousand soldiers and civilians had tried to defend the town from the Republic’s attack, now they were dead.
Romar led his company toward the western edge of Teruel—his guess was he’d find the enemy about a thousand yards beyond the town. They walked in single file, every few minutes Romar rotated the men at the head of the line, who sank in the snow up to their knees as they broke trail for the company. By the time they reached the end of the street, the company was exhausted, their faces past numbness, burning with cold. Even in the blizzard the darkness had begun to wane as the dawn arrived.
Then, from the southwest, a muffled boom. “Mierda,” Romar said under his breath. This was, he suspected, Italian artillery, one of Mussolini’s contributions to the fascist cause. There was another report, and another, as the barrage progressed. Which way was it walking? In the distance, the snow exploded and Romar called out “Down!” The men lay flat for a time, but that was as much as they saw—the barrage continued for twenty minutes, then stopped. The men were, for the moment, safe, but the barrage was likely being used to soften up the defenders for an advance by infantry, so the counterattack was real.
The company walked for another ten minutes and then, as the forest on the edge of town came into view, Romar signaled and again they went flat. That’s where the enemy would be hiding. Of course Romar could barely see the forest through the swirling snow, to him it was more like a gray shadow. For a time, he waited to see what might come out of the tree line. Another barrage started up, this one well away to the north. Romar was about to wave his men forward when a soldier came running from the forest. One of Romar’s men fired twice but the man kept running, then he was joined by others, struggling through the snow, some falling then getting up, some had thrown away their rifles.
Romar held up a hand, stop firing . For this was not an advance by the Moors or the Legion, and this was not an organized retreat—this was headlong flight in panic. One of the running soldiers saw Romar’s company and waved violently, go back , then called out, “Get away! Save yourselves!” Romar’s company stayed where it was as the last men in flight disappeared in the direction of the town. Then they saw a group of men in Moroccan caps, rifles ready, move out of the trees.
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