“No kiddin’? For who?”
“Hey. You’re a big shot, huh?”
“There aren’t any big shots here.”
“Well, that’s a fact,” he said. “That’s a fact for damn sure.”
“How long you been over here?”
“I was in on it almost from the beginning,” the soldier said in his hoarse voice. “November 1935, I think it was. Long Goddamn time. I guess I seen it all. I was at Tortosa the day the bastards wiped out the Lincoln Brigade. Only a dozen of us got out. Six of us drowned trying to swim the Ebro rather than surrender. Christ, what a day that was. The tanks just chewed us to bits. That’s when I knew it was all over. This ragtag army can’t hold out much longer. Thing is, we don’t know how to stop. I guess we’ll just keep fightin’ until we’re all dead.”
“Why don’t you just quit? Walk away from it?”
“Where’m I gonna go?” the soldier answered, staring at Rudman with haunted eyes. “Can’t go home. The U.S. says we broke the law coming over here to fight. Some kind of neutrality act or something.” He stared out at the harbor. A British ship languished in the cluttered port. “Don’t want to rot in some Spanish dungeon. May as well keep killing the bastards until they get me.” He looked back at Rudman. “Where you from?”
“Ohio.”
“That a fact. Never knew anybody before from Ohio. Been home recently?”
Rudman stared out at the British ship for a long time before he answered. “I haven’t been to the States since 1933.”
“Jesus! Why?”
“Work. Pretty sorry excuse, actually.”
“How long you been in Spain?”
“Off and on since the beginning. Occasionally I go back up to Germany and do something.”
“You’re here for the finish, ain’t that it?”
“I hope the hell not.”
“But you know it’s true. Italian tanks, German dive bombers.. . you look back on it, we never had a chance.” He stopped and changed the subject.
“Don’t you miss it? The States, I mean?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t you miss your friends?”
“I only have one friend in America,” Rudman said. “Hell, I don’t even know where he is. Been. . . almost four years since we talked.”
“Don’t ever write, huh?”
“Nah. He’s not much for writing.”
“So when are you going back?”
“When the wars are over.”
“Wars?”
“You don’t think it’s going to stop here, do you? Hell, this is just the warm-up. This is the prelims, soldier.”
“You got a pretty dismal outlook.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.” Rudman laughed. “My job’s dismal.”
“Ain’t that the truth. . .“ The soldier stopped suddenly and looked up, his eyes narrowing, head cocked to one side.
“Hear something?” Rudman asked, shielding his eyes with his hand and scanning the sky.
“Thought I did. Sure has been quiet all. .
He stopped. Then Rudman heard it. The distinctive rumble of the bombers, their engines roaring in unison.
“Christ, what’s left to bomb?” the soldier asked bitterly.
“Maybe they’ll pass over. Maybe they’re headed someplace else.”
“Not a chance. Better get to the shelter, what’s left of it.”
They stood up and started to walk through the broken bricks and rubble of buildings, picking their way around boards with rusty nails sticking out of them, toward the shelter two blocks away. The roar of the planes became deafening. They looked up and saw half a dozen German Junkers peeling out of formation, engines screaming as they dove toward the ground.
“Jesus, it’s the fuckin’ Junkers! Let’s go!” the soldier yelled and they started to run. The engines screeched as the dive bombers dove toward the earth, then howled almost painfully as they pulled out. Then came the most chilling sound of all, a sound both of them knew well, a piercing scream that got higher as the missiles got closer to the ground. The earth shook as the bombs began to hit, stitching a great trench through the city’s debris. The screams got louder. They ran harder. Rudman could see the entrance to the shelter but they were pulling the door shut.
