The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory)

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘I’m in charge here,’ Guzmán continued. ‘You may think it’s a big task for a mere comandante. The Caudillo doesn’t. We report to your uncle nominally on a number of matters but we take orders directly from the Headquarters of Generalísimo Franco himself and no one interferes in what we do without his authorisation. Any challenge to our activities, whether from the armed forces, the guardia civil, the armed police or any judicial power, is referred to the very highest level and then dismissed. When we decide to act, there are very few who can stop us.’

  Guzmán looked at Peralta. The acting teniente didn’t exactly seem thrilled to find himself in the heart of an elite secret police unit.

  ‘These traitors, Reds, Anarchists – let’s just say the enemy – we track them down,’ Guzmán continued. ‘Fourteen years on, many of them think they’re safe enough to carry on their plotting and scheming. Some try to organise armed resistance and rebellion, others to provoke strikes. And some merely produce pamphlets and books aimed at spreading their ideas. There are a lot of them out there.’

  ‘We’ll get them,’ Peralta said enthusiastically. ‘Arrest them and bring them to justice. After a few years in prison, I’ve no doubt many can return to society to—’

  Guzmán pointed a large finger at the teniente. ‘Stop. You think we’re going to arrest all of these men and reform them with a spell behind bars?’

  Peralta’s face suggested he did, though sensibly he kept silent with Guzmán’s big fist raised a few centimetres from his face. Guzmán leaned forward conspiratorially.

  ‘This only needs to be said once, Peralta. Your uncle presumably assigned you to me to enhance your future career prospects, so let me enlighten you.’

  Peralta looked as if he was about to reach for his notepad, but settled instead for a look of absolute concentration, making Guzmán want to slap him all the more.

  ‘Those people who supported the Reds,’ Guzmán said, ‘are the past of this country. A part of our history that’s over. We made Spain what it is now and they have no part in what comes next. Those are the people this unit deals with. When we get our hands on them, they take their proper place in history. In the past. And of course the effect on those who have sympathy for their cause is…’ Guzmán searched for the word he had heard the Caudillo use years ago, ‘instructional. Never underestimate the use of terror, Peralta. It clarifies the choices people make, ensures conformity.’ Ten years on and I can still recall the Caudillo’s phrases clearly.

  ‘I see,’ Peralta nodded. ‘We lock them away where they can never do any harm.’

  Guzmán looked at him without blinking, his face expressionless. ‘No,’ he said, ‘we don’t. We bring them back here. Those who have information will give it to us, whether they want to or not. Then for most of them, we end it.’ He stared hard at Peralta. ‘We kill them,’ he added helpfully. ‘At least, those the Caudillo indicates deserve to die. Which is most of them usually.’

  Peralta frowned. Guzmán thought for a moment he might be sick. And if you are I’ll rub your face in it, you little fuck.

  ‘We kill them?’ Peralta said with some difficulty, still digesting Guzmán’s introduction to the squad.

  ‘Pues sí, Acting Teniente, it’s what we do. If you don’t like it, join the Traffic Police.’

  Teniente Peralta swallowed. His face was ashen.

  ‘Churchgoer?’ Guzmán asked. He’d already guessed.

  A nod.

  ‘Be careful how you phrase it at confession. Not all priests are as understanding as they might be in these matters,’ he smiled, ‘or better still, go to confession round the corner with Monsignor Vasquez, he’s a real firebrand. I understand he personally killed several Republicans in the village where he was priest. He’ll probably give you a few tips if you ask him.’ Guzmán sneered. ‘But he’s very understanding in confession, I hear.’

  ‘I’ll do my best to do my duty, Comandante,’ Peralta spluttered.

  Guzmán nodded. ‘You’d better, Teniente. Now, let’s have a coffee and get this briefing out of the way.’

  He went out into the corridor and Peralta followed, wiping a thin hand across his face as he hurried to keep up with him.

  The small officers’ mess was as shabby as the rest of the comisaría. Several dirty tables, an ill-assorted collection of chairs and very little heating. Guzmán and his new assistant poured coffee from a battered urn into chipped mugs. There were eight others in the room, six in the uniform of the guardia civil, another two wearing civilian clothes with the armband of the Falange.

  ‘Buenos dias, señores,’ Guzmán said. ‘Let’s get started – we want to catch these Reds in their beds where possible.’ The others murmured agreement.

  ‘May I introduce Acting Teniente Peralta, a recent addition to our unit.’ Guzmán waved a hand at Peralta.

  ‘You have our sympathy, Teniente.’ One of the uniformed officers smiled.

  ‘And I’ve had your mother,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘These gentlemen in uniform are the section leaders for today. And these,’ he looked with belligerent disdain towards the two men with armbands, ‘are from the Falange. They’ll be accompanying us on the raid. Probably from the rear.’

  ‘May I ask what role members of the party have in this?’ Peralta asked.

  The older of the two men, fat, ruddy-faced and bald, stood up. ‘Gonzalo Guerrero, Teniente, para servirle. We’re here to provide a support service to your work today. We’ll document the area where today’s arrests are made, take names, make inquiries and then pass on the information to the appropriate authorities for further investigation as is seen fit. Hopefully our involvement will free you gentlemen up for the more,’ he paused for effect, and seeing no one was paying attention, continued, ‘for the more, shall we say, physical, tasks involved in this exercise.’

  Guzmán snorted. ‘Señor Guerrero will ensure once we have the fathers, their children are driven from school, their mothers are watched by the guardia to ensure they go to mass and those in work lose it.’ Guzmán stared at Guerrero with contempt. Guerrero flushed, and Peralta noticed he seemed to be sweating.

  ‘That’s a little harsh if I may say so, Comandante,’ Guerrero blustered. ‘after all, we’re only doing our duty.’

  ‘Quite,’ Guzmán said with disdain. ‘Which is why, gentlemen, I must remind you this operation is under my personal command, and my authority will only be countermanded by the office of the Head of State himself. As for you gentlemen from the Party, I must ask you to wait until all objectives have been secured before you begin your important work.’

  The two Falangists nodded, ignoring Guzmán’s sneering tone.

  ‘Because,’ Guzmán continued, ‘there may be shooting. These are dangerous men we are after and if they resist, they’ll be shot. And if any Party members are in the line of fire, my men will continue firing.’

  The two Falangists exchanged nervous looks.

  ‘Muy bien,’ Guzmán said. ‘You’ve all had information on this operation. We’re going to hit three different targets in the Carabanchel area. You’re all familiar with the location? That’s good, because this isn’t a guided tour. There are various wanted Republicans in the area – it has a reputation for harbouring Red sympathisers. Sections one and two will be dealing with the small fry, Reds of no real importance. Then there are several more important Reds, including a former Republican Officer, the anarchist Mendoza, known as el Profesor and various other luminaries from the Republican high command. Sections three, four and five will arrest these reprobates. Section six will block the road which leads back into the city. Papers to be shown by all, immediate arrest for anyone without identification. Anyone who flees is to be shot without warning. Anyone suspected of carrying a weapon will also be shot. These orders apply to men, women and children. Is that clear?’

  Guzmán acknowledged their enthusiastic agreement.

  ‘The Caudillo has emphasised these men should be taken alive.’ Guzmán saw Peralta dart a glance at him. ‘I want e
ach prisoner searched at once for hidden weapons or poison. Once a man has been searched, bind him hand and foot and place him in one of the trucks. You have all been given a list of the addresses you are to target. Is everything clear?’

  Again, a general nodding of heads. These men had done this before. All except Peralta. Guzmán grunted. ‘Bueno, vamos. It’s a filthy morning for it but the sooner we get it over with the sooner we can be toasting our feet back in barracks. Let’s go and get them. Señores, por ellos.’

  ‘Viva Franco! Viva España!’ One of the Falangists yelled, raising his fist in the air as he had seen Franco do on the newsreels. The Falangist raised his fist again and the guardia civiles joined in the old war chant of the Falange, shouting their response to the party member’s call:

  ‘España! – Una! España! – Grande! España! – Libre!’

  The Falangist smiled, pleased by the rowdy response. As the guardia civiles began to tramp out into the stone corridor, the man patted them on the shoulder as they passed, wishing them well, encouraging them to do their duty. The Falangist didn’t see Guzmán until he was about to give the comandante an encouraging slap on the arm. Guzmán stared at the man with undisguised malice. The notion of a Spain united, great and free was not one Guzmán found pleasing or desirable, nor was such a prospect likely. That was fine: Guzmán was quite happy with it as it was. The guardia civiles’ boots echoed on the stone floor of the comisaría. Guzmán pulled on his overcoat and scarf and put on thick leather gloves. Peralta is going to freeze, he’s dressed for a day at the office. Still, if Peralta froze to death, at least that would get him out of the way. He smiled at the thought.

  The troops were already in the trucks by the time the officers left the building. The trucks’ wheels had now been fitted with chains to enable a grip on the thick snow. It was still dark. Snow fell in desultory waves through the watery glimmer of the street lamps. Guzmán went to the first vehicle in the column and climbed up under the canvas cover. Peralta followed, squeezing himself in alongside Guzmán. Arranged along the seats on either side of the lorry were tightly packed guardia civiles. Some smoked, some had their eyes closed, trying to sleep. A trooper closed the running board and the truck cautiously edged down the road, the rear wheels skidding despite the chains.

  ‘Madre de Dios, we’ll take all day at this rate,’ Guzmán sighed as he lit a cigarette. He noticed Peralta watching him. ‘Do you smoke, Teniente?’

  ‘Well, now and then, sir.’ Peralta looked at Guzmán hopefully.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Guzmán said, turning away.

  Snow fell in an unbroken white curtain as the line of trucks made its way through the wintry streets. Guzmán felt the cold creeping into him. At his side, Peralta was shivering violently and this kept Guzmán cheerful during the journey. The distance wasn’t great but the snow made driving difficult and he fidgeted impatiently, glancing at his watch and cursing the lack of capable drivers. Peralta remained silent, miserably cold.

  MADRID 1953, CARABANCHEL

  There was a reluctant hint of light on the horizon as the trucks rolled through the dark streets. The few people who were about made themselves scarce as they saw the long procession of trucks filled with civil guards. A trooper jumped down to unfasten the running board and Peralta gratefully heaved himself down from the truck. The guardia civiles milled around him, threatening and bulky in their tricorne hats and large capes. The men formed quickly into their sections, eager to get started. Peralta saw barricades going up across the road behind them. No one was leaving this area – unless it was in handcuffs in the back of a khaki truck.

  Guzmán checked his watch and looked towards the waiting guardia civiles. The men tensed, their weapons grasped tightly, ready for action. Guzmán raised his arm and gave the signal to begin. Peralta noticed how the different sections moved to their assigned apartment blocks, some entering hallways, others taking up firing positions. Guzmán stood next to Peralta, ignoring him completely. Apart from the muffled crunch of boots on snow, the road was silent.

  And then shouting and noise. A woman screaming, the sound of glass shattering. A muffled gunshot. Guzmán looked up at the dark tenement, saw a sudden flash of light on the top floor. Another shot. Glass smashed and for a moment a man was framed in the broken window, struggling to get out onto the balcony. Unseen hands dragged him back inside and then a greenuniformed guardia civil peered down into the street and gave a thumbs up.

  Events inside the buildings were having an effect. Groups of men and women were starting to run from the doorways. They were immediately confronted by knots of guardia. The Falangists scurried from their trucks, carrying ropes. There was some resistance, Peralta noted, seeing one man desperately kicking out against a guardia, struggling wildly to break away. Some of the occupants of the building were helping the man in his attempt to escape, swinging punches at the troopers. Other guardia pitched in, using their rifle butts to beat the attackers back. Peralta saw the man on the ground, still resisting, a struggling tangle of arms and legs until a guard raised his rifle and brought down the butt on the man’s head.

  Peralta ran over to where the man lay, his head resting in a pool of blood. He was still alive but barely conscious. One of the Falangists rolled him over onto his face, the second grabbed his legs and the man was quickly bound before being dragged away to the waiting vehicles. Looking towards the nearby building, Peralta was confronted by the contorted faces of the occupants, some still in night clothes, some half dressed, all shouting furiously at the guardia civiles and at him.

  ‘Hijos de puta.’ ‘Sinvergűenzas.’ ‘Policía asesinas.’

  Something hard struck Peralta on the head and he felt a trickle of blood run from his scalp. Dazed, he looked up, his bloody face drawing jeers from the people crowding the doorway. He felt faint.

  ‘Don’t fall down in front of these bastards,’ Guzmán said, pushing through the mass of guardia civiles to get to Peralta. He bellowed for the men to fix bayonets and advance on the crowd. Then he grabbed hold of Peralta and manhandled him to the vehicles, shouting to the men standing by the trucks to come and help. Order was now slowly restored as the occupants of the building were beaten back inside with rifle butts. Many were in a worse state than Peralta by the time the area was quiet again.

  Peralta leaned against a truck, trying to stem the blood with a cloth one of the Falangists had given him. His feet were soaking and frozen, his hands numb with cold and the wound on his head throbbed with a steady pulse of sharp pain. He looked into the truck. Some fifteen men lay face down on the floor of the vehicle, bound hand and foot. All were blindfolded with strips of white cloth. Peralta realised where his makeshift bandage had come from.

  ‘Did we get them all?’ he asked Guzmán.

  ‘No, there’s one left on the list. He lives in a street a couple of blocks away. He should be a lot less trouble than this lot.’ Guzmán pointed towards the building and the churned snow at its entrance where bloody trails marked the flight of the residents. A thin dribble of gore in the trampled snow mapped Peralta’s unsteady return to the truck. Guzmán watched as the first vehicles started to make their way back to the road block, many of the guardia walking alongside until more transport arrived, since the trucks were now filled with prisoners.

  A corporal stepped forward with a list on a clipboard. ‘I’ve checked them off, sir. We got them all, Comandante.’

  ‘Any of our lads hurt, cabo?’ Guzmán asked.

  ‘Only the teniente.’ The corporal turned to Peralta. ‘That’s a nasty cut, sir. I’ll get one of our first-aid lads to come over and have a look.’

  ‘Just one to pick up on the way back,’ Guzmán said. ‘Always save the best till last.’

  More empty trucks had now pulled up at the roadblock and the guardia civiles began to climb aboard, ready to return to barracks. Guzmán pushed Peralta into the cab of their vehicle and climbed in after him, crushing Peralta between himself and the driver. Guzmán gestured to the driver and the truck
eased forward over the frozen snow, hesitantly making its way into the road leading back to the city. Behind them, the other vehicles patiently began to form a convoy.

  ‘Did the Falangists stay behind?’ Guzmán asked the driver.

  ‘No, they decided they’d come back another day.’ The driver smirked. ‘Last in, first out.’

  ‘As ever.’ Guzmán nodded.

  The convoy made its way slowly towards the city centre. The canvas covers of the trucks were tied closed, shielding the prisoners from view. Passers-by paid little attention: military vehicles were a common sight. The long line of lorries slipped and skidded, making slow and painful progress through the snow. At a crossroads the convoy divided, the majority of trucks heading in the direction of the comisaría, while Guzmán’s vehicle and another took a left, heading toward Lavapiés.

  ‘Stop here,’ Guzmán snapped. The truck drew to a halt, the engine still running. Guzmán got out. Peralta started to follow but Guzmán pushed him back. ‘No, stay here. You’ll only bleed on someone’s carpet.’

  MADRID 1953, CALLE DE LA TRIBULETE

  Peralta watched Guzmán in the rear-view mirror as he walked to the back of the truck, shouting for the men to get down. Dark, caped figures began to clamber from the truck into the snow. Peralta continued watching as they moved towards one of the blocks of flats. The building was unlike those they had just raided; this one seemed well kept and middle class, not the sort of place a wanted Red would hide out. But then, Peralta thought, what did he know? Since he arrived at the comisaría that morning, he had been in a different world.

  The entrance hall floor was an expanse of cheap tiles, lethally slippery under the guardias’ hobnailed boots and Guzmán scowled as his men struggled to stay on their feet. In front of them a wooden staircase curved upwards into the gloom.

  ‘Number ten,’ Guzmán said. The civil guards began to climb the stairs. Guzmán ordered two men to stay behind, to block any attempted escape. Then he ran up the stairs impatiently, pushing his way through the plodding guards, muttering insults as he went.