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Chapter Six

Bombes Espanyoles

Fitz watched sleepily, sat on the edge of the truck bed and smoking his first rollie of the day, as Sasha headed into the copse, carrying a shovel. He swung his boots to and fro, clanking them into the dropped tailgate. He waited a minute or so, making some noise all the time, then glanced up to make sure the Russian was out of sight. Once sure, he shoved himself off the truck and hurried round to the side furthest from the trees, dropping to one knee by the driver’s front wheel. The roll-up was behind his ear and his blunt penknife was in his hands. Not that he needed the blade.

Less than a minute later, he was back leaning against the tailgate, relighting his cigarette and watching Sasha return. The other man wiped the shovel’s blade off on the grass and threw it into the back.

‘Get in Fitz. I’d like to arrive sometime today.’

Someone got out of the wrong side of the truck, Fitz thought with a smirk hidden beneath his smoke.

The tyre valve blew out at lunchtime, just as they were cresting the final hill.

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Sasha kicked the damaged tyre. ‘Der’mo!’

Fitz sat on the roadside, cradling one arm tight against him with the other and wishing his head would stop hurting. Good plan, Fitz, great plan. Sabotage a vehicle you’re travelling in yourself. He’d been expecting the blowout, of course, but hadn’t dared to brace himself too obviously in case Sasha got suspicious. The truck had lurched and veered, his elbow had cracked into the door and his head had been jolted into the roof of the cab. Oh yeah, he was so smart.

‘There’s a spare though, right?’ he asked.

Sasha flopped on to the scrub next to Fitz. ‘No.’

‘Ah.’

‘You can take it into the town, find a garage and get it fixed.’

‘Or you could.’

‘Nyet, Fitz. I am not leaving the truck behind.’

Fitz groaned as he pushed himself up. He walked over to the edge of the hillside and looked down into the valley. Guernica lay across the river at the bottom, beyond dotted woodland and cultivated fields. It wasn’t big, just another typical market town. A steady stream of solid wheeled carts had been passing them since they had broken down, with worn farmers walking in to sell what little produce they had. He could have got a ride into town with them, sat on the back with the sheep, but he had declined. He glanced at his watch. 4 p.m. According to the Doctor’s instructions, it was almost time. Looking down into the town, he could just glimpse the busy central square, the antlike swarms of people gathered there.

The central church bell started to clamour.

He heard a low thrumming sound high up in the sky. A plane coming overhead.

‘It’s a Heinkel. German bomber. They must have forgotten they signed the non-intervention treaty again.’

Sasha had joined him on the slope. He had dug out a pair of binoculars from the supplies in the truck and handed them over, pointing northwards, towards the sea. Fitz spotted the outline as the dark shape became clearer. A single Heinkel 111. He could still visualise the little, well-thumbed pamphlet he had kept in with his gas-mask as a child. Every plane in the British and German air forces detailed and outlined. Black abstract shapes that he had memorised but rarely seen. He had been five, six, seven, but his mother had refused to send him away, too afraid of what might happen to a German child out in the countryside. Heinkels had bombed out the Lipmans up the street.

The distant crump of the explosions in the town drew his attention. He didn’t need the binoculars to see the first blossoms of smoke, dark orange in their centres. It had hit around the station, eight hits all in a row. The buzz of the engines was fading already.

That was it? That was what he had come here to witness for the Doctor? Seriously underwhelming. Refocusing, he could see people re-emerging from the buildings, going towards the wounded. A horse silently struggled until a soldier raised his gun. Bucket-chains began to form. Through the glasses, it looked unreal, like