Doctor Who_ History 101 - Mags L. Halliday [50]
The planes had circled for another attack run, swooping down. The explosions were on the edges of the town and suddenly Fitz could see what was happening. The chilling wind was sending them off-target, the smoke compounding the problem, concealing the town. These were crude weapons, subject to the vagaries of a mistimed release or strong crosswinds that could send a bombing wing off course.
The Heinkels roared, passing overhead, banking as they turned over the high ground. They buzzed back over, low enough to make Fitz duck, almost low enough that he could feel the turbulence they created. Following the wing, he realised there were people on the road, fleeing the now burning city. The Heinkels were opening fire before he realised what was about to happen. He wanted to scream a warning but he knew it was pointless.
Sasha was yelling futilely up at the sky.
The Republican soldiers on the ground were diving for the drainage ditches, shoving and pulling what civilians they could into the pathetic shelter. The town was completely hidden, the wind sending the smoke and flames higher and wider. The deeper rumble of heavier bombers faded in. Fitz thought they might be Junkers of some kind, pregnant with bomb loads, flying low and slow over the town.
‘They mean to destroy the roads, prevent any retreat,’ Sasha suggested.
Fitz watched in horror as the bombers began single file runs down the roads, targeting the infrastructure but hitting the terrified population. He wanted to stop watching, to run down into the carnage screaming at the planes to stop but he was here to observe, to see what had happened. It didn’t tally with the version he knew but he was becoming used to that, travelling with the Doctor. History was never tidy.
The first survivors began to straggle up the road, passing their stranded truck. Wounded soldiers and shaking women. Most kept going but some paused on the crest, looking away from the inferno towards the quiet Basque countryside beyond. Sasha went over and commandeered a handful of the militiamen, then broke into a crate of basic medical supplies. They began trying to patch up those who would stop. A motorbike wove between the new refugees, then away towards Bilbao, taking the news of the attack. Fitz joined the Russian, doing what he could and trying to get those that paused to talk to him.
Those that would speak, who could speak, spoke of an apocalypse. A sudden firestorm devouring their homes. People running into collapsing buildings for shelter, suffocating dust. Panicked, wall-eyed livestock careering down the narrow streets. Priests giving blessings to Catholics, Communists and Anarchists alike, all kneeling in the crumbling dugout shelters. The stench of burning flesh. Fitz spent five minutes stanching the flow of blood from the bullet holes in the shoulder of a nun. A nun. She kept asking after her sisters and it was only when Sasha muttered in his ear that Fitz realised she meant others of her order. He could see two of them were lying in the dirt down on the open roadside, not moving.
Dusk had fallen when the last bomber, its engines less laboured now it had delivered its load, vanished back into the clouds. The town lit the impromptu field hospital though, blazing red and smelling of fire.
* * *
They met in the bar of the Hotel Continental, a place that had managed to remain neutral so far. Pia sat at a table and let the Doctor buy the drinks. Prices were up, again, as the merchantships found it harder to reach Barcelona. The Englishman had money, some kind of private income, and the Italian was willing to overlook his apparent capitalism if it got her the odd drink.
He looked as tired as she felt. He was slumped in his chair, his dark red shirt rumpled and creased from the day at the wheel, his eyes tired. His drink was untouched on the table.
‘How is your friend?’ Pia asked, when it became