Friday, April 23, 1937.

2140 Hours.

Town Barracks.

Even today, I still have the scars of her nails on my arms, scars she inflicted on me as she clawed the pain away. 

It was over in an instant, yet it felt like an eternity. The saw crunched her bones as it slowly went back and forth below the knee. The sound of flesh and sinew breaking away was the worse--wet, like stepping on a puddle. 

Lula's pain was unbearable. It took two more soldiers to pin her down completely. Her screaming woke most of the camp up, including Lieutenant Aguirre. He entered the tent like a madman while demanding left and right to keep it quiet, but managed to subdue himself when he saw the squirming Lula being dismembered by the young medic, but not before staring me down. 

The pain proved too much at some point because Lula fainted halfway through. Or maybe it was the blood loss. That, I don't know. What I know is that she woke up a minute later with renewed strength, cursing at me, and God, and the medic. But it didn't last long as she fainted yet again. 

After what seemed like forever, the deed was done. Her discarded leg fell to the ground with a wet thud, pushed to the side with a kick by the medic, who proceeded to clean his bloodied hands on a water basin that I'm sure had more bacteria pooled in there than running water. 

"The worst is over," said the medic. "I can take it from here. I just need to dress her wounds and we are good to go. Go get some rest." 

If only it were that simple.

The walk from the tent to the barracks was less than a stone's throw away, but it might've been a continent away for all it mattered. There was someone in front of the barracks, a man I recognized as the same imbecile Sergeant that had relieved us of our duty that morning, an event that felt years ago in the grand scheme of thing. 

"Goicochea, Loyola," he said as Torito and I approached, "Lieutenant Aguirre wants to see you."

"That's nice," said Torito. "Do tell him I still look the same as yesterday, and that I send him lots of hugs and kisses." 

The Sergeant clenched his jaw, so much that I could hear his teeth crunch. "That's an order, soldier." 

"And this is me telling you to fuck off." 

Torito pounced on him like a lion, toppling him in an instant. The Sergeant tried, and failed, to fend him off, but Torito was red with anger. Torito managed to wrestle hin to the floor and sit on his chest before pounding him over and over again in the face. 

I couldn't begin to fathom what drove Torito to do such a thing, but his ear-to-ear smile told me he was enjoying every second of it. And I was, too. 

There was something strangely cathartic about watching him tear apart that pompous bastard. It wasn't the fact that he was beating the lights out of an idiot--although watching his teeth fly out of his mouth with every punch felt incredibly good--but more on seeing justice and good prevail against something wrong. It made me feel not as prey, but a hunter. It made me feel powerful.

It wasn't long until a circle of soldiers surrounded us, all cheering and jeering as Torito sullied his knuckles with his blood. 

The Sergeant had obviously fainted already, not that Torito cared. He continued to punch him over and over again, turning the man's face into a bloody pulp. But nobody dared to end it. 

There is a weird, sadistic pleasure in violence. Watching in others, or doing it yourself. The act of dominating another, being in control, sex. Violence is sex. Pleasure. Basic. Instinctual. Is in our brains. This was one big orgy of testosterone and violence for us. 

Until Lieutenant Aguirre came. 

"What in the name of Jesus are you doing, Loyola?" he yelled at Torito. 

He could only smile at him, stained from head to toes with blood. "What can I say, Lieutenant? He doesn't seem to like hugs and kisses, so I just went the other way around." 

Behind the Lieutenant were two of the biggest soldiers in camp which he often used to do his bidding. "Get him out of my sight," said the Lieutenant. 

The two goons grabbed him by the shoulders and unceremoniously dragged him away.

"Can I get a shower first? I'm covered in idiot," was the last thing he said before leaving my sight. 

"Get this man to the medic," said Lieutenant Aguirre. "And you, Goicochea, follow me." 

The Lieutenant's tent was a filthy and filled to the brim with maps and documents, but at least he had an actual mattress instead of the hay we regular soldiers use. 

There was a cup of lukewarm wine with a fly floating in it sitting on his desk. He still took a sip of it. You don't waste wine, not during the war. 

"At ease," said the Lieutenant. I obliged. 

Lieutenant Aguirre stood behind the desk, watching me from top to bottom. Maybe he was observing the mixture of caked blood and dirt on my uniform, or my cuts and bruises. I was tired, and hungry, and barely able to stand, and even more so as my brain tried to find an excuse for everything. But nothing came to my mind. Nothing. 

Yet, the Lieutenant didn't speak a word. And I wasn't supposed to speak to him unless he spoke to me first. We were at a silent standstill. 

What he did was toss a letter in from of me. 

"I got that letter from the frontline. Your uncle is dead. Killed by friendly fire during combat. I'm sorry." 

Everything faded away from my mind. I couldn't think, or feel, or anything. The Lieutenant said something about putting Camarada in charge if the squad in the meantime, and another thing about briefing something in the morning. Everything was, and still is, muddled. 

I felt nothing. Not fear, or sadness, or joy. I was emotionally and mentally blank. Next thing I knew, I was back in the barracks, laying in my "bed" with my eyes wide open with a crumpled letter in my hand. 

I could only stare at a black stain on the roof that looked like a horse while the sound of artillery and bombs serenaded me until I passed out from exhaustion.