Saturday, April 24, 1937

7000 Hours.

Town Barracks.

One of the things people don't tell you about the army is that there's a lot of waiting to be had. 

Waiting for new instructions. Waiting to be deployed. Waiting at a checkpoint. Waiting for your next meal. Waiting for death. A whole lot of waiting for things to happen with nothing to do. It is imperative for your own mental health to take up something to distract your mind from the numbing monotony of nothingness.

I saw Abarran playing cards with some other privates in a corner--and winning. You couldn't say from looking at him, but he was apparently very good at bluffing. Guillermo was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was probably sulking somewhere while cursing at his fate. 

As for me, I passed the time by dissasembling my rifle over and over again. I took my time with every piece, making sure everything clicked and moved together. Testing the trigger and hearing the hammer hit the drum. Over and over again. Nice and easy. 

I took my mind of out things. Out of the enemies in the sky. Out of the enemies under my feet. A nice, monotonous task that put me in control, a control that I didn't have anymore. I couldn't control my fate. I was a nobody--a pawn to be used to fight a stupid war between brothers, ones with the same blood as me. 

I tried to meet with Lula but the medic didn't allow me to. She was weak and in a delicate situation, even fearing infection. The rifle was all I had control of. 

Testing the trigger, hearing it click. Yes, it was good. And once again, I disarmed it. 

I wonder what prevented me from shooting myself and ending it all. Maybe it was morbid curiosity, or perhaps it was a fear of eternal damnation. Maybe it was because of the possibility that my uncle would be waiting for me with a disappointed scowl. 

Truth is, I was too much of a coward to take my own life. There is bravery in life, and there is bravery in death, and I was in a limbo between both of them. A coward who couldn't live or die. 

As such, I was waiting. Waiting for death. Waiting for life. Waiting for something. Anything. 

Testing the trigger. It didn't click. There was something wrong. I disarmed it again. 

A soldier approached me. Santiago something, I couldn't remember. He was always friendly with everyone and was beloved by both communists and anarchists. Even his walk was silly, swaying left and right as if drunk. 

"Sebas, Sebas," he said as he stood next to me. "Got a cigarette?" 

I wasn't in the mood for talking so I gave him one of mine. Not that I ever used them. 

"Thank you, thank you," he said as he lighted it up. I thought that would make him leave me alone, but he took a seat next to me instead. 

"So, Sebas," he said, exhaling a puff of smoke as he scratched his nose with his thumb. "You were attacked by some antisocials near the bridge, no?"

"Yes," I said curtly. 

"How many were they? Your squad came all banged up."

"Many," I said. 

"I see, I see," he said. He took another drag of his cigarette. "Well, I'm glad you came back in one piece. Not like that girl, the one with the leg thing. What was her name?"

I tried to say her name, but couldn't. The words got stuck in my throat. I didn't deserve to say her name. 

"Yes," I said. 

"Rough thing, losing a leg. I had a cousin who lost a leg a year ago. He now has to use two sticks to walk, but he's happy."

And that was the end of that conversation. I pulled the trigger. It clicked. It was good. Time to disarm it again. 

"Hey," he said as he flicked the ashes out of the cigarette, "I heard about your uncle."

"Yes," I said. 

"Tragic. He was a hero to us all. Hard soldier."

"Yes, he was," I said. 

"How are you feeling?" 

"I'm good," I said. I couldn't even meet his eyes. 

"It's okay not to be good," he said. He took another drag out of his cigarette and squashed it against the ground. He put the rest in his pocket for later. "You just need to let it out."

"I'm okay," I said. I pulled the trigger. It didn't click. Time to disarm again. 

"I'm just saying, if you need to talk I'm here for you. Nobody should go through this alone, you know?" 

"Thank you," I said, and nothing more. 

We didn't say anything for the longest time. We sat there, side by side. I wouldn't admit it, but it was good for someone to be there for you, even if by courtesy.

He could've left. He could've just gone somewhere, yet, he remained. 

I pulled the trigger. It clicked. It was good. Why was I crying? 

"It's okay," he said. "Just let it out."

He placed an arm around my shoulders. For the first time in what seemed like forever, I had a genuine human contact.

I cried like a baby in front of everybody in the camp. 

"Gather up," said Camarada. "We have our marching orders." 

We stood in line in front of him. Abarran had a new ring and a gold chain that he didn't have before. Maybe he wasn't as naive as he looked. 

"The top brass deemed the gun factories to be a possible target for an air attack, so we are moving our available stock to Bilbao and the frontlines. We are tasked with escorting one of the weapon shipments to the frontlines," said Camarada. 

"How are we supposed to defend the cargo in case of an air raid again?" asked Guillermo, "'cause I'm not too sure a handful of fuckwads with rifles will be able to do much. Sir." 

"We are supposed to give our lives if needed, right?" said Abarran. Camarada nodded at him. 

"It is a top priority right now, so we are moving as soon as possible," said Camarada. "Gather your stuff, re-stock your ammo, and move out." 

"Can't we just restock at the factory?" asked Abarran. 

"They only have small weapons there," I said. "Pistols, revolvers, all that stuff. They don't make rifle rounds."

"Where do we get out rifle rounds, then?"

"Fuck if I know," said Guillermo. 

"What part of gather your stuff you didn't understand?" said Camarada. "Go! Except you, Sebas. Stay behind."

Guillermo gave me a snide look, maybe anticipating that I was somehow in trouble. Soon there were only Camarada and me standing around. 

"This is bad, Sebas," he said. "This assignment is going to take us all day." 

"Yes, I realize," I said. "Any ideas?"

"Just one," he said, followed by him punching me square in the face.

I felt my nose crunch under his fist, followed by a squirt of blood soiling my hand as I covered it. 

"What the hell? How is this helping?!" 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," said Camarada as he grabbed me by the shoulders. "I thought an injury would give you an excuse to be left behind for the day."

"You got manhandled by a demon and got promoted, do you honestly think a broken nose would make me skip duty?" 

"Shit, that's right, my bad."

"And why didn't you broke your own nose? Why did it have to be mine?" 

"That's what comrade Stalin would do," he said. "For the greater good." 

"No, that's what a mentally damaged person would do," I said. "Fuck, it hurts. Let me think of something, okay?"

"Okay, Sebas. Let me help you."

I personally think that the only thing worse than getting your nose suddenly broken is getting your nose suddenly set by a pair of unkind, callused hands.