----------------------------------------------------
July 1960 - Somewhere in the North of Spain
----------------------------------------------------
Father Ángel Vicioso had lived in the Northern foothills of Spain for nearly sixty years, first as a young boy, then as a farmer turnd soldier, and now as a man of god. The revival of the Catholic Church under the late King had been a great boon for men like him and he had taken to the task of reinvigorating the flagging Spanish soul with nothing short of zeal. He now walked great distances in his threadbare brown Dominican robes to bring the word of god to every corner of northern Spain.
There had always been farmers up here, sheep herds, small roving packs of wild dogs, and the ever beautiful Spanish wild horses. Forests had sprung up where forty years ago there had been barren hillside after the King began his program to "re-forest the nation." Millions of trees had been planted to replace those harvested to build the great Armadas of old. Even building codes only allowed for wood to be used as a minimal supplement to other building materials. The country had bloomed, become beautiful again in such a way that one might walk for hours beneath heavy branches without seeing another person.
Farming techniques had been refined, tractors and other technology introduced to assist the peasants in gaining greater yields from their land. Olives were still vitally precious, as were vineyards, but they had been limited, thereby driving up the price for them, boosting Spanish economic growth. New roads had been carved through the mountains and the rail lines upgraded.
Vicioso had seen it all. He was a popular figure himself on the trails and roadways, well known to all. He was paid a pittance by the church and survived off the charity of others when he stopped for the night in small villages or campgrounds. He was certain he knew most people worth knowing in the north.
That was why he had begun to notice a gradual change that began three years ago. The day to day life of the north was unaltered but he had first noticed more police patrolling the roadways, and he had seen the officers taking pictures of bridges, culverts, roadways, buildings, etc. At first he took them to be new and just doing the usual tourist things but then sharp eyed younger men who wore no uniforms appeared and he knew soldiers when he saw them.
Those men had studied the same things the police had and, in some cases, whatever they were looking at was suddenly visited by engineers from the Public Works department. Some things were replaced, others strengthened, and always, the police patrolled diligently.
Word in the villages was of Communists filtering south from France and stirring up trouble among the peasants. Vicioso had seen some of this but not enough to cause much worry. They were usually young men who had been north for their education and come back filled with strange ideas. More and more the leanings seemed to be toward a general sense of pride at being Spanish.
Then, quite suddenly, a year ago, he had witnessed something he knew he was not meant to see. One night while hunkering down beneath a tree to keep out of a spring rain he had seen two men running along the roadway. They were young from what little he could see in the dying evening light, young and terrified. He had meant to call out to them but god had spoken to him and told him to keep quiet as the two leapt the ditch opposite from him and tried to wiggle into the bushes.
Headlights appeared suddenly on the road and the sound of voices shouting made him shrink against the tree. They were not the type of happy shouts to which he had become accustomed in this peaceful land. They were the sharp crashing bark one associated with soldiers. They were angry.
The light armoured vehicle that appeared was one he knew well from his time as a soldier and the insignia of a red and blue cockade on the side made his blood run cold. The Cazadores, Spains elite Military Police unit. They were well known throughout the country for their fanatic loyalty to the military leadership.
"You! Out of the bushes! Now!" One of the soldiers was yelling, waving his rifle barrel toward the verge of the roadway. Vicioso could tell the soldier didn't know exactly where his prey had gone but it didn't matter as two dogs dogs began to bark from further down the embankment.
"Okay! We give up! Don't shoot!" One of the fugitives had called out from the bushes. Vicioso recognized a French accent when he heard one. The two men had emerged from the brush with their hands raised, blinking in the bright headlights of the vehicle.
To Vicioso's horror the Cazadores shot them then and there. Nothing was said, two soldiers simply raised their rifles and fired without a second thought. The two men had been thrown backward against the side of the embankment, their bodies sliding slowly down into the rain filled ditch.
The soldiers had retrieved the bodies and taken them back toward town. Vicioso had heard nothing else about it. Though, over the next year, as he continued his duties and walked the length of northern Spain and back again, he heard more than a few stories of such incidents witnessed by the local population. Always it was "Communists" or "French spies" who had been shot. Whatever, or whoever, the Cazadores were looking for, they were being careful not to upset the locals.
And so the year had come and gone. Vicioso has seen more and more soldiers slowly appearing in the region. On more than one occasion, and only in the dead of night, had he seen long lines of military vehicles moving into the region along main highways before turning off into the countryside to go only God knew where. On more than one occasion he had attempted, out of curiosity, to follow their tracks, but he had always been politely turned back by police, or some cases, Cazadores.
The police had always shown him great deference but been firm in their refusal to let him pass. The Cazadores had been equally polite but their smiles did not reach their eyes when they laughed with him. Maybe it was true what everyone said, they were dead inside.
Then, just a month ago, he had seen a long line of covered lorries pulled up along the side of the roadway. They looked much like your standard delivery lorry, well used and very common in Spain. The big flat beds often carried farm machinery, new vehicles for the villages, produce, and much more. The wind on this particular day had been quite strong and one of the tarps had come loose. Two of the drivers were fighting to drag it back into place but it snapped open for an instant and in that moment Vicioso saw the treads of a tank. He couldn't be sure but the more he stared at the shape beneath the canvas the more he was certain he could see the outline of a Zorro Medium Tank.
He had begun to pay closer attention to the trains that drew into the local stations he passed, and the long convoys of lorries that crawled up the mountain passes. Though he could not say for certain, he believed that at least one in three lorries or cargo containers was carrying army equipment.
Now, today, on this hot July morning, he was kneeling next to another lorry. He had fought with temptation to go closer, to look, but curiosity had gotten the better of him. The lorry drivers did as they usually did and went inside a local cafe for a morning cup of coffee before the long climb into the mountains. The lorries were parked all in a neat row. Their cargos wrapped as they always were in brown canvas. He reached out a trembling hand to touch the canvas.
"Ever heard the expression, curiosity killed the priest, Father?" He started violently like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar and turned, still on his knee's, to see a well built young man watching him. The man was leaning on the side of the lorry cab, an apple in one hand while the other wagged a finger at him.
"I... I... I don't know what you mean." He stammered. The protest sounded hollow in his own ears. This other man was nearly thirty years younger than he, in far better shape, and he could just see the hint of an outline in his baggy shirt that suggested he was armed. "It is not crime to touch a lorry after all."
"Come on father," The man laughed, his white teeth flashing in the sun. "You don't think we haven't noticed you poking around up here. It's not like you're a nobody after all. In fact, you're somewhat of a celebrity."
Vicioso desperately wanted to ask who "we" was, but doubted very much the man would tell him. In fact, he was fairly certain that one wrong question out of place and the man would kill him. That smile hadn't reached the grey eyes that still seemed to bore into him despite the friendly tone.
"Well, maybe I should have just asked then. Why are their so many Cazadores and police up here now?"
The mans eyes gleamed slightly and he chucked the apple core over his shoulder, wiping one hand on his jerkin. "How should I know Father? I just drive a lorry. And, speaking of, time to get cracking. Do yourself a favour Father, stick to preaching, you have a gift for it and the world is in sore need of decent people like you."
The man waved and then scrambled up into his lorry. The engine roared to life and the convoy slowly began to move away up the road. Vicioso stood at the roadside and waved to the drivers as they passed, a smile fixed on his face. He had been shaken to his core by the incident and only when the lorries had vanished up the road did he allow himself to sink back to the grass with a sigh.
"Why the long face Father?" For the second time that day he nearly jumped out of his skin. A young boy, no more than ten, had appeared from the bushes and sat beside him.
"Nothing, my son. Just a long day."
"Did you want to know what is under that tarp?" The boy asked and Vicioso looked at him in surprise.
"You know?"
"Sure, Father." He boy smiled innocently. "No one minds me running around looking for my lost dog." He leaned over and whispered conspiratorially. "There is no dog, Father."
Vicioso could only look amazed the audacity of the child who was grinning at him with impish delight. The boy looked around and then leaned in close again.
"It was an airplane father."
At first Vicioso thought the boy was joking but the look of serious earnestness on his small face caused the Priest to pause and think. First soldiers, then tanks, and now planes. It was not impossible.
"But why..." He muttered the words to himself but the boy couldn't help but overhear him.
"Obviously he wants to go flying, Father."
Vicioso threw back his head and laughed, patting the boy on the shoulder. There was still some innocence to youth. Though, there was truth in the words. They would certainly fly the plane, but to where?
July 1960 - Somewhere in the North of Spain
----------------------------------------------------
Father Ángel Vicioso had lived in the Northern foothills of Spain for nearly sixty years, first as a young boy, then as a farmer turnd soldier, and now as a man of god. The revival of the Catholic Church under the late King had been a great boon for men like him and he had taken to the task of reinvigorating the flagging Spanish soul with nothing short of zeal. He now walked great distances in his threadbare brown Dominican robes to bring the word of god to every corner of northern Spain.
There had always been farmers up here, sheep herds, small roving packs of wild dogs, and the ever beautiful Spanish wild horses. Forests had sprung up where forty years ago there had been barren hillside after the King began his program to "re-forest the nation." Millions of trees had been planted to replace those harvested to build the great Armadas of old. Even building codes only allowed for wood to be used as a minimal supplement to other building materials. The country had bloomed, become beautiful again in such a way that one might walk for hours beneath heavy branches without seeing another person.
Farming techniques had been refined, tractors and other technology introduced to assist the peasants in gaining greater yields from their land. Olives were still vitally precious, as were vineyards, but they had been limited, thereby driving up the price for them, boosting Spanish economic growth. New roads had been carved through the mountains and the rail lines upgraded.
Vicioso had seen it all. He was a popular figure himself on the trails and roadways, well known to all. He was paid a pittance by the church and survived off the charity of others when he stopped for the night in small villages or campgrounds. He was certain he knew most people worth knowing in the north.
That was why he had begun to notice a gradual change that began three years ago. The day to day life of the north was unaltered but he had first noticed more police patrolling the roadways, and he had seen the officers taking pictures of bridges, culverts, roadways, buildings, etc. At first he took them to be new and just doing the usual tourist things but then sharp eyed younger men who wore no uniforms appeared and he knew soldiers when he saw them.
Those men had studied the same things the police had and, in some cases, whatever they were looking at was suddenly visited by engineers from the Public Works department. Some things were replaced, others strengthened, and always, the police patrolled diligently.
Word in the villages was of Communists filtering south from France and stirring up trouble among the peasants. Vicioso had seen some of this but not enough to cause much worry. They were usually young men who had been north for their education and come back filled with strange ideas. More and more the leanings seemed to be toward a general sense of pride at being Spanish.
Then, quite suddenly, a year ago, he had witnessed something he knew he was not meant to see. One night while hunkering down beneath a tree to keep out of a spring rain he had seen two men running along the roadway. They were young from what little he could see in the dying evening light, young and terrified. He had meant to call out to them but god had spoken to him and told him to keep quiet as the two leapt the ditch opposite from him and tried to wiggle into the bushes.
Headlights appeared suddenly on the road and the sound of voices shouting made him shrink against the tree. They were not the type of happy shouts to which he had become accustomed in this peaceful land. They were the sharp crashing bark one associated with soldiers. They were angry.
The light armoured vehicle that appeared was one he knew well from his time as a soldier and the insignia of a red and blue cockade on the side made his blood run cold. The Cazadores, Spains elite Military Police unit. They were well known throughout the country for their fanatic loyalty to the military leadership.
"You! Out of the bushes! Now!" One of the soldiers was yelling, waving his rifle barrel toward the verge of the roadway. Vicioso could tell the soldier didn't know exactly where his prey had gone but it didn't matter as two dogs dogs began to bark from further down the embankment.
"Okay! We give up! Don't shoot!" One of the fugitives had called out from the bushes. Vicioso recognized a French accent when he heard one. The two men had emerged from the brush with their hands raised, blinking in the bright headlights of the vehicle.
To Vicioso's horror the Cazadores shot them then and there. Nothing was said, two soldiers simply raised their rifles and fired without a second thought. The two men had been thrown backward against the side of the embankment, their bodies sliding slowly down into the rain filled ditch.
The soldiers had retrieved the bodies and taken them back toward town. Vicioso had heard nothing else about it. Though, over the next year, as he continued his duties and walked the length of northern Spain and back again, he heard more than a few stories of such incidents witnessed by the local population. Always it was "Communists" or "French spies" who had been shot. Whatever, or whoever, the Cazadores were looking for, they were being careful not to upset the locals.
And so the year had come and gone. Vicioso has seen more and more soldiers slowly appearing in the region. On more than one occasion, and only in the dead of night, had he seen long lines of military vehicles moving into the region along main highways before turning off into the countryside to go only God knew where. On more than one occasion he had attempted, out of curiosity, to follow their tracks, but he had always been politely turned back by police, or some cases, Cazadores.
The police had always shown him great deference but been firm in their refusal to let him pass. The Cazadores had been equally polite but their smiles did not reach their eyes when they laughed with him. Maybe it was true what everyone said, they were dead inside.
Then, just a month ago, he had seen a long line of covered lorries pulled up along the side of the roadway. They looked much like your standard delivery lorry, well used and very common in Spain. The big flat beds often carried farm machinery, new vehicles for the villages, produce, and much more. The wind on this particular day had been quite strong and one of the tarps had come loose. Two of the drivers were fighting to drag it back into place but it snapped open for an instant and in that moment Vicioso saw the treads of a tank. He couldn't be sure but the more he stared at the shape beneath the canvas the more he was certain he could see the outline of a Zorro Medium Tank.
He had begun to pay closer attention to the trains that drew into the local stations he passed, and the long convoys of lorries that crawled up the mountain passes. Though he could not say for certain, he believed that at least one in three lorries or cargo containers was carrying army equipment.
Now, today, on this hot July morning, he was kneeling next to another lorry. He had fought with temptation to go closer, to look, but curiosity had gotten the better of him. The lorry drivers did as they usually did and went inside a local cafe for a morning cup of coffee before the long climb into the mountains. The lorries were parked all in a neat row. Their cargos wrapped as they always were in brown canvas. He reached out a trembling hand to touch the canvas.
"Ever heard the expression, curiosity killed the priest, Father?" He started violently like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar and turned, still on his knee's, to see a well built young man watching him. The man was leaning on the side of the lorry cab, an apple in one hand while the other wagged a finger at him.
"I... I... I don't know what you mean." He stammered. The protest sounded hollow in his own ears. This other man was nearly thirty years younger than he, in far better shape, and he could just see the hint of an outline in his baggy shirt that suggested he was armed. "It is not crime to touch a lorry after all."
"Come on father," The man laughed, his white teeth flashing in the sun. "You don't think we haven't noticed you poking around up here. It's not like you're a nobody after all. In fact, you're somewhat of a celebrity."
Vicioso desperately wanted to ask who "we" was, but doubted very much the man would tell him. In fact, he was fairly certain that one wrong question out of place and the man would kill him. That smile hadn't reached the grey eyes that still seemed to bore into him despite the friendly tone.
"Well, maybe I should have just asked then. Why are their so many Cazadores and police up here now?"
The mans eyes gleamed slightly and he chucked the apple core over his shoulder, wiping one hand on his jerkin. "How should I know Father? I just drive a lorry. And, speaking of, time to get cracking. Do yourself a favour Father, stick to preaching, you have a gift for it and the world is in sore need of decent people like you."
The man waved and then scrambled up into his lorry. The engine roared to life and the convoy slowly began to move away up the road. Vicioso stood at the roadside and waved to the drivers as they passed, a smile fixed on his face. He had been shaken to his core by the incident and only when the lorries had vanished up the road did he allow himself to sink back to the grass with a sigh.
"Why the long face Father?" For the second time that day he nearly jumped out of his skin. A young boy, no more than ten, had appeared from the bushes and sat beside him.
"Nothing, my son. Just a long day."
"Did you want to know what is under that tarp?" The boy asked and Vicioso looked at him in surprise.
"You know?"
"Sure, Father." He boy smiled innocently. "No one minds me running around looking for my lost dog." He leaned over and whispered conspiratorially. "There is no dog, Father."
Vicioso could only look amazed the audacity of the child who was grinning at him with impish delight. The boy looked around and then leaned in close again.
"It was an airplane father."
At first Vicioso thought the boy was joking but the look of serious earnestness on his small face caused the Priest to pause and think. First soldiers, then tanks, and now planes. It was not impossible.
"But why..." He muttered the words to himself but the boy couldn't help but overhear him.
"Obviously he wants to go flying, Father."
Vicioso threw back his head and laughed, patting the boy on the shoulder. There was still some innocence to youth. Though, there was truth in the words. They would certainly fly the plane, but to where?
1x Like
