Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

One day I found myself at the vanguard, making some calculations on a tablet, looking through my periscope. Ay, yes, the periscope. That Z-shaped lens-tube, so very useful for observing the ramparts from the trenches, the same reason it would always be targeted by enemy fire. The best way of concealing it was in a gap in the ground between two fajinas . Alas, there was some Allied whoreson, a Dutchman or a Portuguese, up on the ramparts with a telescope; he had it trained on the trench’s cautious advance and must have had a gift for spotting periscopes. Telescope versus periscope: This was trench warfare. Half my life I have spent fighting on the side of the periscope, half on that of the telescope. An enemy officer ordered a twenty-bore cannon to see if it could hit me.

Boom! The cannonball landed right between two large wicker baskets that were above me — orange light exploded all around me. I was saved by the fact that I was crouched down at that moment, leaning right forward and making notes on the distances. A nearby crew of sappers came and dug me out of the avalanche of mud, uprights, and rubble.

I was not the slightest bit just or thankful in the way I pushed my saviors off me — shouting and shoving them away. The periscope, a very expensive piece of equipment, was broken. This made me even more vexed. Finally, an old sapper managed to bring me back to my senses. He gave short shrift to my fit of pique. “Calm yourself, lad. You survived somehow. Now get yourself to the rear, get a strong drink inside you, and they’ll soon sew you back together.”

He was quite right, not that it stopped me from going away in a foul mood. In that humor, with my face darker than coal, I made my way to the rear. Which was when I saw that pair, Anfán and Nan, up to their tricks again.

You find a multitude of lateral openings in the overall circuit of an Attack Trench: spaces for storing ammunition and building materials, recesses begun in error and abandoned, drainage ditches, false branches to confuse the enemy watchmen, areas for men to fall back into and depositories, branches leading to the artillery platforms. In one of these I saw Anfán on his knees, facing a soldier who was in the process of unbuckling his belt.

What was it about the prospect of this act that so enraged me? All I know is that I howled at the man like a monkey. “Pig! I’m going to send you to the galleys!”

The soldier was startled — finding himself reprimanded by some frenzied stranger, eyes staring out from a soot- and red-mud-covered face. Then I noticed the dwarf was in there, too, behind the soldier. Hearing me, he shot out, followed by the boy. And they didn’t go away empty-handed.

“Imbecile!” I said to the soldier. “They’ve stolen your purse. The least you deserve!”

He ran out after Anfán and Nan — not, of course, that he was ever going to catch them.

Once the second parallel was under way, the mortars and cannons on either side bombarded one another twenty-four hours a day. The besieged sought to impede the forward progress of our trenches and destroy our artillery, we to destroy theirs and to create breaches in the ramparts. The firing from the city rained down on the fajina parapet like hail. Near misses would come flying at those of us behind.

For some unknown reason, summer in the south of Catalonia can be even more suffocating than down in Andalusia. Add to this the dozens of dead bodies situated foolhardily above the trench, which no one dared bury even at night, and you can imagine the clouds of pernicious insects that abounded. What a wonderful invention sign language is! We engineers had another way of communicating. Why? Well, because if you opened your mouth to speak any word longer than oui, twenty flies would be in there before you knew it.

As for Nan and Anfán, I chased after them day and night, in vain. They were impossible to catch. They scuttled like lizards on six feet and always knew the best fork in the trenches to vanish down.

I decided to try and make a pact with them. I came across them one day in a trench that was particularly long and straight, they at one end and I at the other. Before they ran away, I let them know it wasn’t my intention to trap them. I left a folded piece of paper on the floor. I shouted out that it was a pass so they could come into my tent — if they came, I’d reward them with chocolates. Then I withdrew so they could come and take the piece of paper.

It did not work. Perhaps they didn’t trust me, but most likely, their natural tendencies simply took over. They were trench rats, born to pilfering and dashing off.

A few days later, I finally got my hands on them. I was lucky enough to run into them on a sharp corner, and they didn’t have time to escape. The dwarf managed to evade me, but I got a good hold on Anfán. I lifted him up under my arm as he kicked and screamed.

“Quiet!” I said. “I’m going to make certain you’re never seen around here again.”

But he somehow wriggled free and dashed away, Longlegs Zuvi following after. I lunged and got him by the ankle. The two of us rolled around on the floor of the second parallel.

Thus, when an enormous man appeared nearby, the two of us were tangled up, tearing at each other like schoolboys. Anfán thrashed around, but I was getting the better of him and didn’t pay much mind to the man.

“You!” he growled. “Does no one in this army salute a general?” He pointed to the band on his belt indicating his rank. He must have been around fifty years old, with thick, substantial cheeks. From where I was, like a worm on the ground, he blotted out the sun. I got to my feet. If I had known then how important this man was going to be in my life, I can assure you I wouldn’t have given such a wishy-washy answer.

“Apologies, General, I didn’t see you. Now, if you’ll allow, I’m trying to bring a bit of order to this trench.”

I had been in contact almost exclusively with French personnel, and I must admit I had taken on many of their prejudices, and the way they looked down on their Spanish allies. They considered them an army of poorly organized, poorly directed beggars. And they were right. This general wasn’t happy about being brushed aside. Obviously, faced with a French general, I would have shown an altogether different attitude, and he knew it.

I made to head off with Anfán by the neck, but the general stopped me, putting his hand on my chest. He’d encountered me tangled up with this whimpering boy, the boy resisting and trying to get away. What could he think? Our eyes met, and then I knew. He got me by my shirt and slammed me against the trench wall. Keeping a hold on me, he brought his face right up to mine. “I know your kind very well! Like abusing trench orphans, isn’t that it?”

“Me?” I said as his large hands pinned me back. “I must be the only person in the entire army trying to stop such abuses!”

To make things worse, Anfán began weeping like a widow. He was so convincing that even I, in another moment, would have been moved. He spoke his mix of Catalan, French, and a little Castilian, but you didn’t need to know languages to understand what he was saying: that I was an underground letch, that I’d made him suck my pito , the whole thing. Kneeling now, in a memorable final flourish, he lifted his eyes to the heavens, two tears running down his mud-smeared face, and begged the Almighty to free him from this life of sorrow. Even his sandy locks seemed pitiful. At six years of age, not even the rascal Martí Zuviría was quite so accomplished! I of course protested, but the Spanish general grabbed me by the neck with bull-like strength.

“That’s enough out of you, you swine! How can such a vile specimen as you even exist? Abusing children is like sacrilege!” he cried, and with a swipe of the hand, he delivered his judgment. “What is there left to say? I’ve heard enough.”