Breaking Lorca

TWO

There was not much left to identify the little school as a school. It sat like a red brick hat, neat and symmetrical, on the crest of a long, slow hill south of the city. Once there had been a small village around it, but when war came it had been necessary to remove the village. Faint rectangular outlines marked the places where the houses had been.

A perimeter of sandbags and barbed wire surrounded the school, and a makeshift gun tower rose like a periscope from the southeast corner where the playground used to be. And yet, despite the barbed wire and the sandbags and the gun turret, Captain Pena sometimes imagined he could hear the shrill voices of schoolchildren playing in the yard. The sounds of peace.

The walk was helping him calm down after yelling at his nephew. Now, as he climbed back up the hill, the only sounds were the lowing of cows and the stutter of gunfire from the nearby practice range. Captain Pena always took a walk after lunch, otherwise he had a tendency to be sleepy and then he would have trouble concentrating on the reports he had to read and write. He certainly couldn’t afford to relax, not with the kind of men he was forced to work with.

A cow came right up to the fence at the edge of the road and looked at him with mournful eyes. The little school was a tranquil spot, all in all, and he hoped that one day it would be returned to its former purpose. Then again, it was war, and war changes everything and everyone. His peacetime career had been going so well-so had his war, until the Sumpul campaign. It was because of the Sumpul campaign that he was posted at the little school.

He came to the back step, where a young recruit was unloading a delivery.

“Did you bring my chocolate milk?”

“Yes, sir. Right here, sir.”

The driver handed him a squat brown bottle and went back to unloading. He was maybe sixteen, his uniform drifting loosely around his neck and shoulders. Another soldier, no older, stood guard at the back of the truck. They were from the garrison down the road, the regular army. Aside from providing twenty-four-hour sentries for the barbwire perimeter, these deliveries were their only connection to the little school. An army of children, the Captain thought as he went inside. How can we win a war with an army of children?

“Ha! The Captain got his milk, I see,” Tito said without looking up. Four of the squad were playing poker at the kitchen table. There was a game every lunch hour. The kitchen was the only room in the school that resembled what it had been before the war. “Some pull he must have to swing luxuries like chocolate milk.”

“It’s not a luxury. I have an ulcer from working with no-good bumpkins like you, sergeant.”

“Give me two,” Tito said to Lopez.

Lopez was the biggest man at the table, a perfect cube of muscle whose hands looked small and prim holding the cards. He flicked two cards at the sergeant. “Two for the bumpkin.”

“Call me that again, you’ll end up playing Submarine. Yunques, bring me a raincoat. Private Lopez wants to play Submarine.”

The Captain sighed. It was terrible discipline, but that was one of the benefits they promised men they picked for squads like this-no uniforms, a more relaxed atmosphere. It’s not like any other assignment in the army, they were told, you’ll be joining a team, you’ll be part of an elite unit, part of the advance guard.

It remained to be seen whether his nephew would ever be a part of this team. Victor was the son of the Captain’s dead brother, and utterly without social sense. His brother had been a bit like that too; they had never been as close as he would have liked. When his brother had died of cancer-it was ten years ago now-he had sent money to Victor’s mother every once in a while to help out, at least until Victor finished high school. His mother had died a few years ago, but by then the boy had been old enough to look after himself.

Or so the Captain had thought. He was damned if he was going to see a Pena executed for cowardice. He had to think of the family name. Shot before a firing squad? No, no. Captain Pena was honour bound to try his best for his nephew, even though everything the young man said or did seemed guaranteed to alienate the others. Too quiet, too polite, and always with his face in a book, as if he were still a student. Except for Sergeant Tito, none of the other men was even able to read, although, curiously, they had no trouble distinguishing one playing card from another.

The Captain missed the regular army, the fellowship of officers, people from his own class, but he lingered for a while, watching these coarse men finish their hand. Tito, at forty, was the oldest; the others were in their early twenties, not children at least. He sighed and looked out the window. It was barred like all the others-those that had not been bricked up-but this was the only room with a view of the hills. The cows had folded themselves up in a patch of sun.

Peacetime. In peacetime his nephew might have made something of himself, perhaps started a small business, married, and raised a few children. In peacetime no one would have discovered what a weakling he was, what an embarrassment. War shone a pitiless light on a man’s character, and what was revealed was seldom flattering. Still, he didn’t want to give up on the young man.

Lopez cursed under his breath. The sergeant characteristically was holding his cards close. Discretion. Yes, discretion was an important character trait. Loyalty, patriotism and the unquestioning carrying out of every order-these were crucial. Literacy was not even on the list.

“You have ten minutes, my children. Lunch is over in ten minutes.”

“Who’s on deck?”

“Unless I am mistaken, there is more to learn from Labredo.”

“Labredo? Labredo’s a goner.”

“Exactly why I want to hear from him.”

Labredo had no information, the Captain knew, but it was important for the men to believe they were hot on the trail of priceless intelligence-the stray, half-forgotten fact that might thwart a terrorist attack or save a campaign. They had to believe they were saving lives.

Lopez folded his cards. “Any bets Labredo makes it past five o’clock?”

“You’re not going to get any takers on that one, Lopez.”

“Three o’clock, then. That’s only two hours. He might make it two hours.”

“Labredo’s a goner.”

“Okay,” said Lopez, “so let’s make bets on his last words. Fifty centivos he says Oh, God.”

The others laughed.

“Oh, please. Oh, no. Oh, God. … It’s got to be one of those, right? That’s pretty good odds.”

“There’s no point betting on things you can make happen,” Tito pointed out.

“What do you mean? You can’t know for sure something like a man’s last words.”

“If I feel like it, I can guarantee what the guy’s last words are going to be. Gua-ran-tee.” Tito stabbed the table with his forefinger at each syllable.

“Oh, big shot here.” Lopez leaned forward on his elbows. “What can you guarantee?”

“Fifty centivos his last words are Please kill me.”

“Exactly this? Please kill me exactly?”

“I don’t know about exactly. Please kill me more or less.”

“Oh, well, more or less. Nobody bets on more or less.”

“Shut up now. That’s enough.”

All four men looked over at the Captain, who glared at them from beside the window.

“Where is your dignity?” he asked them, putting an edge into his voice. “Where is your self-respect? You think you’re on some junior baseball team? This is not a sport we’re involved in. This is not a game. Listen to me. Every time you are tempted to think we are playing a game, you remember. Remember that somewhere out there”-the Captain gestured toward the fields, the hills-“somewhere out there, your enemy is calling this exactly what it is. He is calling this war. And some day, when you are scouting some godforsaken barrio, or running half blind into some snake-infested village, or even driving down a halfway decent road-some day, when you are ambushed in your shiny little Jeep-you will meet this man, my children. And he will kill you.”

The Captain crossed the room to the door, and the four pairs of brown eyes followed him.

“It’s one o’clock,” he said. “Bring in Labredo.”