The Military Megapack, page 20
He thought it quite natural that Don Jaime de Cordova y Badajoz should come riding over the hill on his white horse, with his saddle heavily plated with silver and his bridle and bit set with sparkling stones. He thought it natural also that Don Jaime should dispense the justice of the land—should sit out in the open field, behind his great table, with two uniformed soldiers behind him, and should merely have to speak, for the lash to fall on a naked back, or the heavy doors of the jail to close upon an offender.
Don Jaime was omnipresent and omnipotent. One could not offend Don Jaime, nor shirk his service. The lash was there, coiled, ready to hiss, and the naked blades of sabers ready to leap from the sheaths to uphold the power of the Law.
* * * *
Until he was ten, Juan Jimenez knelt in the dust of the roadside—the crooked, dusty, rocky track that led over the hills to Badajoz—when Don Jaime came riding over his fields. Knelt, as did all others of the land over which Don Jaime was patron and which he held from the King himself. The dust curled up from under the hoofs of Don Jaime’s horse, and from under the feet of the horses of his escort and settled upon the head and wet face of the little boy in the road.
When Juan was ten the miracle occurred. Don Jaime came riding over the hill into the little village of mud huts. Sitting his horse proudly. An Arabian stallion which fretted and minced and spurned the earth with his feet and seemed to strike fire with his hoofs. A thoroughbred who carried his head high and pointed his delicate, small ears, and champed at the bit with his pink mouth.
He came galloping into the mean street. A girl child, an infant, screamed for some reason, rose up out of the street, fled, almost under the hoofs of the Arabian. And the hoarse, startled, reared violently, lunged sideward. The proud figure of Don Jaime slipped perilously from the saddle, fell with one foot trapped in the heavy, metal-covered stirrup. The stallion lashed out with sharp, fast hitting heels, and galloped crazily through the streets, with Don Jaime bumping against the earth, his fine uniform dragging in the dust.
There was a yell of alarm from the escort and a clatter of hoofs, but Juan Jimenez was quicker than the rest. At the first leap of that white horse he had thrown his body forward. His hands had seized the horse’s mane. His young legs drove his body up from the ground, and he came down astride the neck of the Arabian. He clutched the heavy curb bit, dragged back with all his strength.
And magically the white horse came to a stop, stood trembling, with rolling eyes. Stood, and the escort threw itself from saddles and helped Don Jaime extricate himself from the stirrup. For a long moment Don Jaime stood there, his face white, his head bleeding a little, staring at the stallion and at the boy who sat astride of his neck, gripping the reins, holding the horse in check.
Then Don Jaime walked forward slowly and looked up at Juan. “What is your name, boy?” he asked.
“Juan Jimenez, Excellency. I am the son of Jose Jimenez who is your tenant.”
“Where did you learn to ride?”
“I did not learn, Excellency.”
Don Jaime made a face for the benefit of an officer of his escort. “He did not learn!” he repeated.
The officer laughed. He was relieved that Don Jaime should take this so well. “All these little monkeys are born riders, Excellency,” he told Don Jaime.
“He has a straight back and a strong body and a quick eye,” remarked Don Jaime. He looked up at Juan again. “How did you think to do that?” he demanded.
“I did not think, Excellency. I—just—did it—because Your Excellency was being hurt.”
“You know you saved the life of your patron?” Don Jaime asked, almost fiercely. “What kind of a reward do you think you should have for such a service?”
Juan looked at the great man. “I did not act for reward, Excellency. Such a small thing—”
Don Jaime’s face blackened for an instant. “So, you think it a small thing to save the life of a Cordova?” he asked.
“No, Excellency, that is a great thing, but my part was so small. A Cordova would have saved himself without my aid.”
Don Jaime stared. Then he laughed. “By heaven—that does not sound like the utterance of a peasant! That was spoken like a diplomat. This boy has possibilities! What do you want to be, boy?” he asked.
Juan’s eyes glittered for an instant, looked at the uniform of Don Jaime and his officer, then he lifted his head.
“I would like to be a soldier—an officer,” he said firmly.
“Can you read?” asked Don Jaime.
Juan Jimenez stared. “Read?” he faltered. “No, Excellency.”
“You must read and write and count to be an officer.”
“Yes, Excellency.” There was a sudden collapse in the young voice. The knowledge of the impossible. That all things were always impossible.
“An officer, eh?” said Don Jaime ruminatively. “He would make a good officer—to think and act so rapidly. Yes—a good officer. Send me your father, boy,” he said suddenly.
Juan Jimenez watched his father push forward through the knot of villagers about Don Jaime. “I am the father, Excellency,” he said humbly.
“You have a good son there,” praised Don Jaime. “A fine son.”
“I have five more sons—and two daughters,” explained the father nervously.
“You will send me this son—to Badajoz—at once,” commanded the Don. “He wants to be an officer. He shall be an officer—you hear what I say?”
The father took a deep breath. His mouth opened for an instant, but it closed again. Finally he said: “Yes, Excellency.”
The patron turned to his steward. “See that Jose Jimenez is relieved of the necessity of paying taxes for three years. Give him one hundred pesetas in gold. This because his son saved the life of a Cordova.”
And Juan Jimenez saw his father’s knees sag until he was kneeling in the dust with his hard, toil-coarsened hands clasped in ecstasy, his face working, with wonder on it.
“A million thanks, Excellency. A million prayers for the health and life of Your Excellency. A million blessings upon the head and house of Your Excellency—”
Don Jaime lifted the boy down from the stallion.
“You heard?” he asked. “You will come to Badajoz tomorrow to begin being an officer.”
Juan Jimenez’ heart was thumping. “I hear, Excellency,” he said.
Don Jaime mounted the quieted white stallion. In the doorway of the hut, Juan Jimenez’ mother held her son in her arms and wept over him, and called upon God to witness the miracle of such a son.
And the next morning, with the sun, Juan Jimenez went over the hill, along the road, toward Badajoz and the house of Cordova.
CHAPTER II
Skies Stained Scarlet
Captain Juan Jimenez stood on the heights at Pamplona beside his tri-motored Caproni bomber. With the dawn, men had been loading the belly of the bomber with iron eggs. The great ship bulked hugely and dwarfed the men. A sergeant-mechanic in the cockpit started the motors one after the other. They coughed and spat or gushed blue smoke and flame before they settled into a steady, rhythmic beat.
Captain Jimenez was studying a map of the French-Spanish border around Irun. His flight commander, General Molo, placed his finger on the map.
“You understand, Jimenez?” he asked tersely. “The whole section between Irun-Behobia-Biriatou must be cleared. You must give special attention to the enemy machine-gun concentrations which are resisting troop advances. The main fighting centers about La Puntza hill on which the government troops are making a last stand. Comb the territory carefully, fly low, look for resistance, bomb it out of existence. La Puntza is the last town standing between us and Irun and we must have Irun tomorrow.”
Jimenez nodded and took the map in his hands. “I understand, Excellency,” he said alertly. “I shall do everything possible.”
The general put a hand on his shoulder. “I know you will, lad,” he told him with a paternal pat. “You will take your three machines again—and again—until we have won. Good luck, my son.”
And Captain Jimenez climbed up to his high perch in the forward cockpit of the Caproni. Behind him his gunners were in their seats, helmeted and goggled, guns unslung. The bomber was in his tiny booth, fussing with his sights. The motor ticked over. Further downfield stood two other Capronis readied for flight.
Jimenez moved the controls, tested his motors. After a moment he lifted his hand in the signal, and poured the throttle to the powerful monoplane. It roared forward, skimmed over the earth, grew lighter, lifted its tremendous bulk, lunged upward into space.
Juan Jimenez sat there, his hands handling the controls delicately. Except his helmet and goggles, he wore no flying equipment. His uniform was the uniform of the Spanish Foreign Legion. His face was black with the North African sun. His little black mustache was trim and crisp, his fierce black eyes looked over the horizon of the world. His mouth was hard and firm.
Many things had happened to Juan Jimenez since the day of the miracle. There had been the great house of Cordova, and the new clothes, and the interest of Don Jaime in the career and progress of his protégé. And there were times when Don Jaime had looked at this straight-backed, fiery-eyed lad with a soft light in his proud old eyes, for Don Jaime had no son of his own.
But Don Jaime had a daughter and her face was soft and dusky. Her body was like the white statues surrounding the fountain, and her voice was like the deep note of a bell. Don Jaime frowned at first when the two children played and laughed together, for it was not good that a daughter of the house of Cordova should be so intimate with the son of a serf-peasant. But when Juan Jimenez had blossomed into the appearance and mannerisms and speech of a gentleman, Don Jaime did not scowl. Instead he wondered what kind of children would be born to this daughter from a strong husband, like this boy, Juan.
The officers of Don Jaime’s staff instructed Juan as a soldier. He wore his uniform and he carried his sword and he commanded Don Jaime’s soldiers under the watchful eyes of the officers.
And when he was fifteen he went to military school, and spent four years—hard, grinding, toil-filled years. Then he graduated as an officer, and wore the uniform of his regiment. He came home after that schooling. His father and mother stared at him as he dismounted. And it seemed that his mother was on the verge of bowing her head. His brothers and sisters stood in silence and stared dumbly.
Somehow Juan Jimenez felt that he had come back to a place peopled with ghosts—had come back to the living dead. The house seemed more wretched, more mean, than ever. And Juan Jimenez heard the envying whispers of the villagers and they burned within him. He saw the bare feet and the lined, parched faces, and the red-rimmed eyes, and he saw how the shoulders of even the young women sagged, and how their bodies were old when they were yet young, and heard how the babies cried, and saw the faces of the men—the men who had never been over the hill—and who did not know that a world existed beyond Badajoz. Ragged, almost naked, clinging desperately to barren, worn-out land, hacking at it with poor tools, burning with the sun, shivering with the chill.
He looked at his own hands, soft, white, shapely. This mud hut seemed like a dream. He thought of Isabella de Cordova y Badajoz, her proud beauty, her sweet, trembling kiss. He had blushed even while his heart surged within him. Now he blushed, too; his loneliness was like a sickness deep in his heart.
And a voice whispered within him. “These are your people. These hills, these stony ridges—they are yours. This sun which beats down on their heads is the same sun which shines on your uniform. You are born of their toil.”
Then he rode back over the hill toward Badajoz with a strange unrest, a strange hunger and that strange pain in his heart. And it seemed that wraithlike invisible hands were trying to pull him down from the white horse—drag him back to the earth.
Then Juan Jimenez fixed his eyes on the heavens, and again went back to school. After a year he became an aviadore, a military pilot, with wings on his tunic. He flew. He drove planes into the far heights and looked down on the world, and sometimes he smiled as he flew, wondering what that mother and father would do and say if they could see him.
* * * *
When King Alfonso fled from his throne, Jimenez was in Africa, fighting against the wild tribes which were in constant revolt against Spain. He heard rumblings of “the people.” Government by the people. No more kings. No more dons. No more grandees. The land was to belong to the peasants.
In Africa there was no such talk about government. The Army was in Africa. The fierce, bustling Legion. And the Legion was recruited to greater and greater strength and greater and greater quantities of war material were dumped down in Spanish African ports and stored carefully.
The Moors were uniformed and trained, given new knives and new rifles and shoes. The Moors, for five centuries the blood foes of the Spaniards. Deadly, vicious fighters.
And Lieutenant Jimenez became Captain Jimenez and wore decorations on his tunic. His fellow officers said of him, enviously, half in admiration:
“He will be a major before he is thirty, that one, and a colonel before he is forty. And he will certainly be a general.”
Then the Foreign Legion started to move. The Capronis were landed on the African sands, twenty or more of them, and for days, Juan Jimenez and his fellow pilots shuttled back and forth across the sea, the ships laden with soldiers—the Foreign Legion and the Moors.
Trip after trip, putting the Foreign Legion ashore in Spain. Grim eyes, heavy-handed troops, merciless because the country in which they fought knew no mercy to victor or vanquished. Hardened to the sight of death and suffering because they had lived day by day with death, disease and destruction. Men who killed the wounded as a matter of course because it was more humane to kill them than to permit them to die, festering under a hot sun, when no medical or surgical attention was possible.
* * * *
Guns, tanks, artillery, moving across the sea, expertly, rapidly—to Spain. To fight against Spaniards. To fight against peasants and workers, those who dared to defy authority by right of birth.
Madrid, with the Capronis flying overhead, and the bombs crashing in the streets, and the fronts of whole houses blown to a shambles by the low flying, racing bombers. With blood spattering the paving stones and spurting into the air. With crowds of people cowering, running to cover—Spanish people. Day after day, night after night, dropping bombs on Madrid.
While on the ground, the Legion marched over Spain. And the Moors, grinning, those wicked knives unsheathed and those naked bayonets gleaming, stormed into village after village.
There were times when Juan Jimenez closed his eyes, and was sick. How the Moors loved those mass executions—lining fifty or a hundred people in a long line, and killing them all with one burst of machine-gun fire, laughing as they killed. Spaniards dying—at the hands of Spaniards. A war of extermination on both sides. When a position was taken, no defender remained alive.
Day after day, long lines of prisoners marching in the dust of the roads, herded along by the grinning Moors. Men, ragged, dull eyes, drooling at the mouth. Some of them dying as they marched, from shocking wounds which no one had time to bind. Women carrying infants, children, whimpering, clinging to the sodden skirts of mothers. All of them—going over a hill—and then the sound of machine-guns, and screams, and the smell of blood in the air.
All because they loved the land. All because they clung fiercely to the land. All because they would not give up the land. That poor, exhausted, barren soil of Spain.
Leathery-faced, bleary-eyed peasants, plodding with blank faces, knowing they were going to death, and going grimly, silently and stolidly. With Spaniards standing by, faces inflamed with hate and rage, and giving the orders which killed these peasants by the hundreds.
Sometimes Juan Jimenez closed his eyes after a sharp breath. A face—so like his father’s face it made him stare. A body like the worn, twisted body of his mother as he had last seen her—going along the road, eyes straight ahead.
And a shudder shook him, and he turned away sick. Why couldn’t they see as he saw—as Don Jaime had taught him to see? Why did they let themselves be mowed down like cattle, like dumb mindless cattle?
Along the roads, bodies—the dead—everywhere. Young men, dead, sprawled out in the grass, looking with dead eyes up at the sun, the blood still running from their wounds.
And more and more marching columns, going to the machine-guns. Until the whole land seemed filled with the sick-sweet smell of decaying bodies and festering blood.
A thousand feet over Irun, Captain Juan Jimenez looked down on the heights of La Puntza. There was a thin, ragged series of rifle pits on the top of the hill. The summit was wreathed by the flashing of exploding shells and drifting smoke. Crews crouched about machine-guns, and the gun spat and chattered at moving bodies going doggedly up the hill, rushing from rock to rock, bodies, with the sun glinting from steel helmets, men of the Legion, fearless, pushing on over the bodies of their dead, charging up into the face of those searing, deadly blasts from machine-gun muzzles.
On top of the hill a ragged army of workers—Loyalists. White shirts, ragged trousers, bare feet, clutching rifles, crouching down in the pits, with a withering rifle fire crashing out of the trenches. Women with them, understanding the great need of defense, firing beside the men.
And the shells from the batteries on the plane below bursting wickedly among them, catching them up, breaking them to bits, smashing them to quivering masses of bloody pulp. Shell bursts, racing along that line of entrenchment like a grass fire, scorching, burning, blasting. The dead tumbled about, arms flung out, mouths open.
For days this had been going on. The battle for Irun and the sea. Reckless, insane killing. No mercy on the top of that hill, no mercy on its flanks. Irun a blasted, ruined heap of wreckage, burning so fiercely that the glare of the flames could be seen from twenty miles away at night.
