Ritter arrived in Vitoria. He landed the Junkers Ju.52 tri-motor and stepped out on Spanish soil for the first time in months. He'd felt an affection for this country that he couldn't explain as he'd flown over the blue gray mass of hills, the somber clouds, the ancient vineyards. Even the scarred landscape, where little men dug trenches for protection, seemed more familiar to him than the hustle and bustle of the Berlin streets.
He looked around the airfield and realized nothing much had changed—the same aircraft, mechanics, and pilots strode across the dirt runways after finely executed missions—yet in a strange way everything was different. A new solemnity permeated the airfield, despite the victories on the Northern front. It was here on the third of June, just a month prior, that General Mola, the most brilliant military advisor, had met his death.
The general had left the Vitoria aerodrome in his own communication plane with two members of his staff and his personal pilot. Ritter believed the man had gotten the pilot's job because of his friendship with the general, rather than because he had superb flying skills. And perhaps that was the problem.
Ritter strode across the field, tucking his flying helmet into his pocket. He removed his heavy jacket, lest he melt under the Spanish sun. On the day of the accident, the weather had been extremely bad and visibility poor. Which was hard to believe since this day was so beautiful.
The accident had occurred only a few minutes from Burgos when the pilot descended, looking for the signals from the airfield. Being lower than the pilot thought, the small aircraft flew into the side of a hill. It was a tragedy for Spain and for the German pilots. General Mola had often smoothed things between the Spanish high command and the foreign generals, including those from the Condor Legion. More conflict existed now between the groups. Ritter was thankful he was not here to join in the battle. He answered only to Göring himself.
Yet last night in Göring’s office, Hitler's general had another request. A simple one, it seemed. He asked Ritter to be a ferry pilot between Germany and various parts of Fascist Spain. He was to deliver specific items and pick up others for the return trip. No questions. No need to know the identity of the items he delivered or their purpose. Only obedience. And a healthy paycheck.
Though Ritter had skirted most of the northern coast on his flight from Germany to Spain, the clear Spanish sky made it possible not only to watch the bombs descending on the Basque towns in the distance, but also the artillery shells. Heavy shells from the howitzers streaked through the sky, appearing almost pretty if one did not realize what they were. Even the three-inch trench mortars arced at a high angle, upward, like silvery birds.
He had no doubt the war would end soon. It was only a matter of time, and he wondered how much the "materials" he transported would help make that so.
Ritter checked in at the main office, then—as Göring requested—watched as unmarked crates were hauled from the aircraft to a secure area. He didn't ask about the contents. He didn't care.
In fact, Ritter cared about little these days. Once the last box was delivered, he ran his fingers through his hair and considered heading toward the nearest tavern to unwind before finding a spare bunk to sleep in. As he walked toward the auto pool, hoping to beg a ride to town, a man's voice interrupted his thoughts. He spoke in crisp German, with an air of appreciation for Ritter's position, which caused Ritter to smile.
"Sir, can you come to the office, please? My commander wishes a word with you before you depart."
"Of course; lead the way."
Ritter sighed as he entered, realizing he now had the upper hand. He had free entry into Göring’s office, and no doubt more Spaniards would ask favors of him. The thing was, Ritter determinedly heeded Göring—and Göring only. Anything less would waste his time. Göring considered him more than a pilot. He was an asset to the German cause . . . and with authority came responsibility. Something he did not take lightly. He would do the bidding of Hitler's general.
Deion had only spent a few days driving the truck for the Thaelmanns when he was told that someone had messed up, and he should, in fact, return to the front lines with the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. While they waited for their next orders, he thought about visiting the hospital again to talk to Gwen, but his feet refused to carry him that direction.
The battlefield was no place to spark a romance, he told himself—even if Gwen had gotten over her anger. It was easier if things ended now, before they really got started. He knew if he let himself fall for her, he couldn't live with himself if anything happened to her.
A strange uneasiness hung in the air. Perhaps because the commanders checked and rechecked their troops and inspected their weapons—just in case. Or maybe because the troops had received double the amount of food for dinner. A last meal before the big battle to come?
They finished their dinner, and he washed his face and brushed off his dusty uniform the best he could. Then the word came. They were leaving tonight. He'd have no time to say goodbye to friends in the hospital or, for other soldiers, Señoritas they'd been seeing in town. They had to pack up and head out. Not a minute could be wasted.
Major George Nathan called the men to order, then stepped out from the cluster of brigade staff, clearing his voice to speak. "Battalions stand ready to move out!" He relayed no grand plans other than that they would head to the front lines. Still, another word traveled through the groups and brought excitement to their limbs. Offensive. After a year of defensive warfare, it was their turn to make the move, to lead the fight.
They headed out on foot because they heard there were tens of thousands of Republican soldiers and International volunteers merging on the Nationalists. As Deion set out, keeping time in stiff, creaky boots, he had never felt so conflicted. Fighting had been his main goal, to make a difference. Yet he couldn't deny that if he had a few more days, he most likely would have paid another visit to the pretty nurse. There was something about her he couldn't shake. And now he left, without the chance to say good-bye. It seemed foolish, but in a very real sense his heart was another victim in this foreign war.
The man to his left sipped from a canteen, and Deion could tell by his trembling hands he'd already seen the front lines. Those who had witnessed the death of friends, and suffered injuries of their own, gathered the nerve to march forward. As Deion had seen through his seven months in Spain, they faced their own fears on the battlefield as clearly as they faced the enemy. Others—those new to the brigades—walked taller, with straight backs and sure smiles.
"Where you from?" Deion matched his pace to the man beside him.
The soldier was stocky, with a freckled face and reddish brown hair that stuck out from beneath his cap.
"Stockholm. I never thought I'd miss it." He turned to Deion as he spoke, wiping his red eyes.
The man's breath smelled like alcohol, and Deion knew it was cognac, not water, in his canteen.
"Can ya believe it?" Deion tried to act as if he didn't notice the way fear caused the man's eyes to dart wildly. "We gonna be the one surprisin' the enemy this time."
The man was silent for a while as they walked along, and Deion wondered what he was thinking. When the sun set over the ridge of the distant mountains, his companion finally spoke.
"The last time I was on the front lines, we was sitting there when this young man came up—a Spanish lad. We chatted for a while, and he offered us cigarettes. Then he headed back out across no-man's-land."
"A scout?" Deion asked, replacing the face of the boy in the story with a dozen others he had met and seen.
"So we believed. Not two minutes later, a guy from the staff came by. Said the boy was sneakin' round for the other side. They headed out after him, but secretly I hoped he made it back. I heard that happened in the Great War, too. Men saw the enemy face-to-face, only to discover you can't hate the guys on the other side once you joked with them. I think about that kid every time I fire my gun, and hope my bullet's not heading his direction."
Deion's footsteps slowed slightly, and he questioned why he'd even started this conversation. His mood was bad enough as he replayed his own misgivings. Not talking to Gwen one last time, knowing his last injury—a concussion—was just inches from being more serious. Not to mention the bullet to his leg that caused stiffness and aching even now.
Third strike you're out! He tried to push the thought away.
Another guy approached Deion, passing out Hershey bars. He moved on, making sure each man had one.
"Is this what they call a good-bye gift?" the man from Stockholm mumbled. "Something to enjoy because tomorrow we die?"
"Don't talk like that," Deion spat out. His words came out harsher than he'd intended. "I been injured twice. You think I wanna go out there again?"
A foul attitude settled over him, and he didn't know where it came from. Just hours before he'd been eager to fight, and now . . . the more he marched, the more faces of the dead flashed through his mind. Guys he'd known for such a short time.
As they marched on, morning came, and then the hot sun was high in the sky. The path they followed sloped, like a gully now; so many boots had marched through it.
No clouds shadowed the sky, and Deion wasn't sure when he'd ever felt so hot. They passed a row of poplars, and for a brief time found relief. The trees curved over the road as if offering a moment of shade and protection. But soon they too disappeared, and nothing remained except a solemn house and Spanish fields that also seemed to wilt under the sun.
A layer of sweat covered his body and soaked his uniform. And when they approached a square of a small town, they found no relief.
"Wait here, men; we have a special surprise. La Pasionaria, Dolores Ibárruri, will visit us soon! In fact, she plans to travel down the entire front of soldiers as they prepare to advance."
Deion settled to the ground, but didn't remove his boots for fear that he'd never get them back on his swelling feet.
"I've heard of her, but no disrespect . . . it's hot out here," he mumbled.
A bespectacled man with a long, thin nose looked at Deion as if he'd just cursed the Virgin Mother. "Dolores Ibárruri is a great woman—a leader to the people. She is the daughter of an Astu-rian miner. She even led the coal miners' strike of 1934."
"Yeah, I know," Deion stated, curling onto the patch of dirt and dried grass. "But do she come with shade and water? My canteen ran dry hours ago." Deion lay there in distress, realizing he had become just as miserable to the others as the Stockholm man had been for him.
The stirring of the men around him woke Deion from his fitful sleep. And as he rose and stood with the rest, blearily blinking at the woman standing in front of the men, he realized why the commanders felt an audience with La Pasionaria was worth the wait.
She spoke of the hardship to come and the solidarity of the people of Spain. More than that, they now knew why their offensive was so vital. It seemed Franco's armies continued to press into the Basque region, conquering one town after the other. In addition, Nationalist artillery did not let up on Madrid. The Republicans believed that attacking Franco's army just west of Madrid would relieve both sections. Perhaps they could end the siege against the capital!
Hope blossomed in Deion's chest.
"We will go forward under the banner of the United Front," she proclaimed. "We will smash the Fascist generals."
She said more, but Deion could hardly hear her over the roar of approval from the men around him. Her words encouraged them, strengthened them for the fight.
She ended her speech by extending a fisted hand, and the men responded in kind. "Viva la Republica!" they shouted, and Deion joined them. "No pasaran! They shall not pass!"