The Smell of War

Gotson was in position to catch most of the rest with his Sten when Baker made his move. These men were green... Franco had to send his more experienced, so-called volunteer, Blue Divisions to the Russian Front to appease Hitler. The army never recovered from the loss of experienced fighters. Now Spain, with the exception of a few Moroccan veterans, had nothing but barracks mavens to send out on patrol: they looked good for the parade grounds but were of little use in the field.

It was over before anyone was able to lift a weapon. They had all moved in such precision that only a short burst from Gotson’s Sten made any sound. Baker worried that the sound of that burst might have carried. He had taken out three with a knife as Iniga made short work of two more with one of the Welrods. The three had moved in unison as though choreographed in a deadly dance.

In the end Iniga had one pinned against a tree by the Mauser she held casually to her side with the business end of the barrel only inches from the boy’s crotch. He was no older than Iniga.

“What are we going to do with him?” she almost plead.

Baker walked straight up to the quivering kid with tears of fear on his adolescent face saying calmly, “Its going to be alright…” he assured the boy as he put a silenced round into the side of the youth’s head. The boy dropped to the ground in front of Iniga’s Mauser muzzle.

She turned to catch Baker walking away as though he’d only delivered a paper. She understood… no prisoners… but a deep ache welled up in her with tears of her own.

 Jerking away she called out to Baker, “Hey, it went through his helmet like a butter knife!” displaying the bloody smatchet.

Baker kicked the Regular's body over to see the wound in the back of the head. The helmet had a hole in the middle of the top, “You did the helmet afterwards.”

“I had to try it,” she answered coyly and smiled broadly. 

He gave her a pat on the back and the three of them got busy hiding the bodies.

War… the crisp clean autumn mountain air now smelled of blood, shit from exploded intestines and urine soaked trousers. All three were young and should have been cramming for studies in dorms or going on chaperoned dates… but here they were. It had to be accepted… it is unfair… every dead soldier has a grieving family… a mother… a father… a lover… war!

Iniga felt a strong urge to have sex with one or the other… it didn’t matter… Gotson or Baker… who cared… she was young and so were they.... far away from a life that was thought to be civil… there were no rules. The cave was where they bedded down and bonded… the three of them. Sex took her away from the anguish… the horror she saw in that boy’s eyes… if only she hadn't seen his eyes... she understood her own fate was there and did not expect to live beyond the boundaries of time set by this war. There was no turning back as she surrendered to the primal instinct to be held and caressed, entered… she was guidari and had tasted blood.

Adriane... continued

They made their way along a path known only to a few; skirting the limestone cliffs that dropped several hundred feet from the barren landscape to wind, below the tree-line, sidelong the steep slopes down and over a crest, forested with firs and some beech trees to a hidden limestone cave where they met the others and stashed the radio. All except the three then dispersed, some down into the town, Jaca: others scattered elsewhere. It is said that the garrison of Jaca’s mutiny against the monarchy and its suppression in 1930 gave birth to the beginnings of the Spanish Civil War. At the cave the three; Iniga, Baker and Gotson, would bind their fates far beyond the immediate circumstances of that day in 1943.

“Unbind him,” Gotson nodded to Iniga.

“What, you want to give him a chance to escape?” she sneered indignantly.

“He could have had that chance a half dozen times by now…” Gotson answered. An uncustomary grin showed the worried features, so weary of warfare, on what ought to have been a youthful face,
“You should be a little less eager for blood, my dear one.” But he knew full well how bitterly the savagery of Franco’s oppression etched itself into the lives of what should have been the carefree youth of the times. He was only twenty years of age and had been a hardened veteran since his first taste of combat as a messenger when he was fourteen.

Gotson returned Baker’s weapons, “Sorry, we can’t be too careful... Iniga, give him back his smatchet.”
“But he said I could have it…” she pouted, intriguingly girlish.

“We have to set up a drop site…” Baker interrupted.

“Please can I keep the smatchet?”  Iniga looked at Baker and patted her side where under her coat the smatchet was holstered.

“Sure,” Baker smiled flashing his straight white teeth. He couldn’t figure if she was patting her breast teasingly or the smatchet sheath. He then turned his head up the hill and held his hand out, palm down to signal silence… he heard voices.

The three fanned out and took cover. Gotson’s took a position above and to the side between a couple of boulders where he could watch the entrance of the cave. That radio in there was crucial for their survival. Ambush strategies and tactics had been worked out long before by the maquisards but Baker had only his well honed instincts to land in a perfect place to observe the approaching column. Iniga found cover a hundred meters up the hill camouflaged behind some scrub beneath some beech trees.

This was an operation with too many problems for Gotson. He preferred quiet operations, where a couple of spikes on a mountain railway track could be dislodged, resulting in a supply train headed for Southern France to derail and tumble into a gulch long after his men would be enjoying a few carafes of wine in Jaca; but this one was suspiciously compromised from the start. He would get a chance to gain respect for Baker’s abilities this morning as an ominous mist cast an aura of mystery around the arrival of two Civil Guards and a half-dozen Regulars.

As the squad approached Baker let the point pass within feet of his position. Gotson had been in so many ambushes by now that he felt calm and focused. The men looked tired and finally the squad leader ordered a rest. They had to scramble up and down these trails, far from the warmth and security of their post. Dumping their packs, rolling and lighting up cigarettes, each made a tremendous amount of noise. From his position he could see Baker gesture, pointing out the sergeant… claiming him for his own… as he was separate from his squad…. taking a dump. Garrote ready, Baker waited, making sure that the sergeant finished his dump before taking him out. He didn’t want to mess himself up in close quarters like that. He gave Gotson a hand signal to wait.