Friday, April 23, 1937.

0230 hours.

Renteria Bridge Checkpoint.

They say that good company makes time go faster. With that logic, bad company makes time slow to a crawl.

Torito, Camarada, and Tuerto made time stop for me. Each step we took from Zurito to the bridge felt like walking backwards and away from it. Torito was point, fuming and spitting every few meters with the bravado of a bullfighter. Next was Tuerto, being Tuerto. I was between him and Camarada, who was still drunk and slowing us down.

Everyone was quiet. Only the drumming staccato of the bombs miles away managed to cut through the silence. Sadly, it was not enough to break the tension between us all, and I blame myself for that.

I was supposed to be their commanding officer. It was my job promote unity among them, and raise morale. What a joke I was. It's not my fault that my surname was important, nor it prepared me for command. Some people were called to serve by country or God. I was called by blood. A choice I couldn't make.

The only thing that prevented me from running away at that moment--besides dear Lula--was the fact that I knew one of them would shoot me in the back for treason if I even dared think about deserting. Say, would you have spared me, dear reader? Maybe even understood my plight?

Maybe you would've shot me then out of mercy, sparing me from the imminent suffering that would plague me only a few days after. I would have preferred that, but alas, I'm getting ahead of myself.

After much shuffling and dirt kicking, we managed to get to the checkpoint.

The Renteria bridge was as much a bridge as a ladder is a chair: might work like one in a pinch, but it's surely not made for it. Sitting above Mundaka river to the east--a very shallow river one could cross walking, if one didn't mind getting their ankles wet--it was one of the three entrances to the town, and by far the less transited one. Only farmers and those living on the surrounding hills ever passed through there, which was practically never unless there was a Market Day, and that wouldn't be until Monday.

We were supposed to relieve the squad securing that checkpoint thirty minutes ago. They were not pleased.

"If it isn't the Handyman Squad!" said their leader, a mud-haired man I had seen before but didn't quite knew his name. "Got held up licking the shit out of the Lieutenant's boots?"

"They probably asked for seconds!" another soldier said.

Torito stepped forwards, probably already seeing red with rage. "Aren't you supposed to get going? Or would you like to pull an all-nighter with us?"

The laughter died down. Their leader stepped forward to stare Torito down. Not that he would ever be intimidated by him. "You're funny, funny man," said the sandy-haired man. "I want to see you cracking jokes when I tell the Lieutenant you came in late and stumbling drunk."

"Good thing we left some shit on the Lieutenant's booth for you guys," said Torito with a mocking smile. "These guys look hungry."

That was the last straw. The other squad began to move towards Torito, ready to pound some fear into his soul. To my surprise, Tuerto and Camarada cracked their knuckles as if ready to brawl. I wasn't in the mood to rush a man twice my weight to defend Torito. It wasn't worth it.

"Stop!" I commanded. From my angle, I could see everyone's ranks, and nobody was above a Sergeant. The sandy-haired man stopped for a second, but his fists still trembled. I could see in his eyes the desire to defy me. Insolent. "That's a command, Sergeant," I said with venom in my tongue. It was enough for him to back down, but not before spitting on the ground in front of Torito.

"What do you say when a superior orders you something, Sargent?" I said.

The man gritted his teeth, balling his hand into a fist. "Yes, sir."

"Good," I said with a smile. "You're dismissed."

The detonations stopped thirty minutes later, but I wished they didn't. They were the only thing that told us time was moving forward. There was an eerie stillness that took hold of everyone--that took a hold of everything. Even the wind was stagnant over the river. The moon beamed at us with a taunting glow as it floated unmovable on the horizon.

Camarada fell in a drunken stupor minutes after the shift started. He was more useful sleeping than awake anyway. Meanwhile, Torito was rummaging through the supplies for something to use to pass the time with Tuerto. As for me, I was concentrating on any sound to break the stillness, but if there were any, they eluded me. No bug under the sky or fish underwater.

Nothing but a hollow silence that swallowed the breeze and spat up echoes of nothing. I swear, dear reader, I was going mad until the sound of disjointed notes strummed the air. Torito and Tuerto had found a beaten-up guitar.

"See, I told you there was one," said Torito, patting Tuerto on his back.

Tuerto grabbed it with will all the delicacy his fat fingers allowed him, examining each of the broken crevasses and chips of the old guitar.

We all had lives before the war, and Tuerto was no exception. He was a Luthier--an instrument maker--and an incredible one at that. Some of the best musicians in Madrid proudly used his hand-crafted instruments to enchant people with their tune. Or at least they used to, before the war. His specialty, of course, were his beautiful guitars. Not only did he make them, but he could also play them with the grace that rivaled even the best virtuoso.

His uniform was that of a soldier, but his soul was that of a poet. A rose by any other name...

As I scurried over to them, he began the painstaking process of tuning the guitar. It was awful, and it took more time than it should, but the sound--any sound really--was enough to soothe my nerves. We patiently waited for him to finish until he was satisfied enough with the tuning.

The first note was a sad b flat that echoed through the river canal.

"Como aves precursoras de primavera,

En Madrid aparecen las violeteras,

Que pregonando parecen golondrinas,

Que van piando, que van piando."

"Llevelo usted señorito, que no vale mas que un real,

Compreme usted este ramito,

Compreme usted este ramito,

Pa' lucirlo en el ojal."

"Son sus ojos alegres, su faz risueña,

Lo que se dice un tipo de madrileña,

Neta y castiza que si entorna los ojos,

Te cauteriza, te cauteriza."

"Llevelo usted señorito, que no vale mas que un real,

Compreme usted este ramito,

Compreme usted este ramito,

Pa' lucirlo en el ojal."

He finished his song with a final strum that shook me to my very core. I would never forget that night and that song. A prelude of the days to come.

"If you could sing like that to Fatima," said Torito, "she would throw herself at your feet."

I couldn't agree more. If only I could have his talent, Lula would follow as well. But alas, God cursed me with no sense of rhythm.

Tuerto could only smile like a fool, strumming his guitar playfully to find inspiration for another song.

Hours went away like minutes, with us three singing whichever dumb tunes Tuerto could conjure with his guitar. It's not like we had something more important to do; the checkpoint was dead, just like the day before, and the day before that. The flames of the improvised bonfire that kept us warm kept dancing against our bodies. It was calm and easy.

Until it suddenly wasn't. In the distance, beyond the bridge, the sound began to pick up.

Drums, blasting one after the other like artillery fire. It was normal for them to start attacking early, but not this close. Not this loud.

It was haunting, reverberating through the otherwise still waters of the Mundaka river. Each second brought the sound closer and closer. But there was no detonation, no light, no screaming, no fire. Only the ever-approaching drumming.

You can understand my panic when I grabbed the beaten-up rifle the army issued as standard and took position behind a crate. Whatever was doing that sound was getting close, and fast.

My movements were so brisk and abrupt that everyone immediately followed my lead. Even Camarada got up from his drunken stupor, confused as ever. Back then, I didn't realize I was the only one hearing that sound. In hindsight, their faces of confusion were a dead giveaway. Nonetheless, four rifles soon found themselves pointing at the other end of the bridge.

It was around dawn when a lonesome figure started to walk towards us from the shadows.

It was not a soldier, nor an enemy.

It was a fat priest with a wide-brimmed hat and a glowing smile.