Monday, April 26, 1937.

0500 Hours.

Zurito Bar.

An hour before dawn, we began to move. 

Every face around me was bloodied, scarred, but unbowed. Not a hint of hesitation flashed through their souls. 

I think it is easy to be brave in front of imminent danger when the alternative is to wait around to die. When the personal consequences are, in theory, the same, in this case oblivion, it is the greater good that matters. Which outcome would be best, or in our case, the least worse? 

What is a man in front of the certainty of doom but someone with nothing to lose with the power of change? Words of a fool, you must be thinking. You know how this story ends. Having delusions of grandeur might help me take the edge off my guilt, I admit, but surely you will forgive me for trying to atone for my sins. 

No words were shared among us as we shared a last meal. Everyone around the table shared a piece of stale bread and a few sausages left from the other day. We placed a beer bottle where Camarada would've eaten. Lula got us fresh eggs from chickens she had on the back of the bar. It was the most delicious breakfast I've ever had, if not the most bittersweet. 

The calm between us was tense. Everyone ate as quick and efficient as we could. The cold air brewed inside, making my bare toes curl. The only thing keeping me remotely warm was Lula's body next to me, and my own resolve of returning alive. 

I didn't know what came over me the night before. Maybe it was a bout of confidence or mad desperation brought by the urgency of our situation, but I proposed to Lula. 

At first, she was dumbstruck, dizzy, even. But she agreed. I was going to take care of her until her last days, taking responsibility as any man should. My plan was to call Father Maximino and have him marry us on the spot, but she refused. She wanted us to marry after we saved the town, not before. That way, I wouldn't toss my life away to leave her behind. 

Wise girl, she was. 

When we finished our meal, we took whatever equipment we had around and make our way to town. I made sure to travel light since I didn't want to be burdened by unnecessary equipment. The only weapons I carried were the Luger and a trench-knife. Lula and the priest moved ahead of us, trying to draw any attention towards them while Torito and I moved through back alleys. 

Even though the sun wasn't up yet, the streets were busy with townsfolk moving carts and merchandise around. History would later condemn Lieutenant Aguirre for allowing Market Day to happen during such a fragile wartime peace. 

I could see parents movig along with children running around. Pregnant women perusing the produce that the town solely needed to survive. My mind, always racing, couldn't comprehend the horrors that would befall them were we to fail, making me want to hurry even more. 

I was using an old clock Lula's father used to own. It was, I assume, brass, with faded markings on the face. Along with Lula's cross that still hung from my neck, and the clothes I wore, it is safe to say our operation would've been doomed from the start without her help.

It was fifteen minutes before dawn when we arrived near the center square, and that the machine gun came into view, all the way to the top of the mock medieval tower that held Guernica's first, and last, line of defense. 

Torito signaled the duo to stop, as it wasn't yet time to act. The two of them sat on a nearby bench as people moved to and fro. There were two guards positioned at the entrance of the tower, each holding a rifle in an upright position. Neither seemed to be older than me. 

"Brother," whispered Torito, grabbing me by the arm, "we only have one chance." 

"I am aware," I replied.

"What if we fail?" 

"We can't," I said. "We must not." 

"But what if we do?" he asked again. 

"I'm supposed to be the coward." 

"Are you calling me a coward? I'm merely concerned."

The cold air made me shiver. My clothes were flimsy and old, and offered almost no protection. If anything, it made me feel even colder. 

"Then, make sure we don't fuck this over," I said. 

We sat still for several minutes, some of which went by twice, as every time I checked the watch I seemed to go slower. Time is a cruel mistress, going fast when we want it to slow down, and slowing down when we want things over with. 

After what seemed like forever the two guards moved from their post to share a cigarette. It was enough for the plan to begin. 

Lula began to limp towards the tower, moving amongst the townsfolk, who even moved out of the way to let her move. When she was adjacent to the tower, she fell down, screaming bloody murder to attract the attention towards her. 

"This woman needs help!" yelled Father Maximino, whose only job was to be as unhelpful as he could. 

Every time someone approached her, he would push them back, yelling dome nonsense towards them. I honestly didn't pay attention, because as soon as the guards moved towards the ruckus we moved into the tower. 

Now, the tower was made to replicate a medieval siege tower, which could only fit a handful of men inside. It is sturdy, ungodly, and perfect to mount a defense. The interior merely had a small staircase that lead upwards, and a ceiling in which you can see the city from a somewhat good vantage point. I believe now it is used as a tourist attraction of sorts, which I would avoid at all costs, unless you like big, ugly buildings that can cave in at any second. 

Whichever the case, we climbed the stairs with little trouble until we arrived at the alcove. The first rays of sunshine began to creep above the rooftops bathing the whole city in gold. It was a spectacle to behold, one that the philosopher in me took a second to take all that majestic scenery. 

The soldier in me, however, reacted poorly when I heard someone shout at us from behind. 

Now, when one trains to be in the army, they use repetition exercises to make our muscles accustomed to an action to the point we don't even think about doing it. This technique is used to derrationalize behavior that goes against what we were taught not to do as a society. Shooting a person is near impossible unless you are derrationalized to have the muscle memory to pull the trigger at a target. Repetition dehumanizes. 

That shout must have triggered something inside me, training I had before joining, as my hand moved on its own to grab the trench-knife, plunging it all the way from the base of the throat and up towards the skull. All I could hear was a gurgle as the body fell down with a thud. 

Not even almost the training could've made me prepare for the awful sound of human flesh and sinew being ripped apart. It felt unnatural. I was a monster. 

I felt even more like a monster when I realized the person I just murdered without thinking was none other than Private Abarran. 

His face was bruised and cut. They most likely tortured him to get to us, and not knowing anything, was sent to a shit detail as punishment. He was a sweet boy that didn't deserve what I did to him. 

And yet, I didn't feel remorse. I don't even remember his face anymore. All I thought, all that drove me, was a single thought. No matter what I had to do, I had to save the town. For the greater good. 

It was for the greater good. 

I am sorry.