The waiter didn’t move. He just stood there motionless, until, all of a sudden, he flinched, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and hurled it toward Paul before leaping over the counter.
Paul dodged; the glass grazed his cheek. "Get him!" he shouted.
The waiter dashed for a door and shoved it open.
Footsteps echoed. A handful of n blocked the exit, shouting in Spanish. One of them even spat at Paul.
A hellish smile spread across Paul’s face as his hand went for his gun — but the n were faster. They lunged forward, trying to drag the group into a ssy brawl.
The first man ca straight at Paul, screaming, his fist raised. Paul sidestepped cleanly and drove his boot hard into the man’s stomach. The man’s face flushed red as he doubled over, struggling to rise under his own weight.
Paul drew his pistol and ended him with a single shot. He then turned and watched his n fight the others as if it were nothing more than a bar brawl.
"Oberleutnant, you go, we take care of this!" Hasso shouted, pushing a man into the wall.
Paul nodded and sprinted after the waiter, yanking open the door.
He ran down a corridor and reached a crossroads. An old, worn door lay to his left; to his right, a staircase led downward.
"It’s the staircase, right?" Paul muttered to himself, choosing the right-hand way, and shoved quickly down the old steps.
He stumbled as he descended, pistol raised, checking every shadow. At the bottom he saw the waiter; the man spun when he heard footsteps, eyes wide. He was half-subrged in a hole beneath a pushed-aside wine barrel.
The waiter lowered his hand, produced a pistol, and fired at Paul. Paul took cover behind a corner and fired back.
A muffled groan ca from the waiter; he was grazed in the shoulder. He spat a curse in Spanish, fired two more tis toward Paul, then slid fully into the hole.
Paul sprinted to the opening, glanced down, and jumped, landing in a puff of dirt.
He ran straight at the figure clutching his side. The man turned and tried to fire again, but all that ca was a hollow "click." He pressed the trigger again; nothing. In frustration he threw the gun at Paul, who batted it aside with one hand.
"What is it with you and throwing things?" Paul snapped, vaulting onto the waiter and driving his elbow into the officer’s neck. "Tell who you are."
The man didn’t understand German. He tried to spit, but nothing ca.
Paul smiled small and tightened the pressure on the man’s neck, half-choking him. Then, in English, he asked again, "Who are you?"
Still confused, the man said nothing. Paul grabbed him, dragged him toward the tunnel entrance, and hauled him along the ground.
At the top, the prisoner bumped into Hasso and the other Spanish soldiers — their faces bloody and swollen.
"Well, look who I caught while you were busy fighting in the bar," Paul said, mocking Hasso’s red nose. "Get the guy—"
A Spanish soldier stepped forward.
"Ask him who he is. What’s his connection to Republican Spain? Does he have intel on the city hall?" Paul said, already turning away. "Oh, and secure this place. Get everyone out of the bar. Guard the tunnel, and when you’re done interrogating, co outside."
The soldier nodded and moved to relay the orders to his comrades.
Paul stepped outside, taking in the fresh air, Hasso following close behind.
The two n walked through the dimly lit streets of Ávila, and for a fleeting mont the tension of war — no, war itself — seed to disappear.
There were even people outside. The brave ones. They risked walking, talking, pretending as if nothing had happened at all.
"Heinrich, how do you do it?" Hasso asked, stopping in his tracks.
"Do what?" Paul asked, turning around and lighting a cigarette.
"All of it. You’re only a few years older than , yet you have the composure of a veteran." Hasso paused, searching for words. "You don’t even flinch when you see death. How do you do it?"
Paul looked at him, his gaze lingering a mont longer than necessary. Hasso was so much like him, like the man he once was. The sa look in his eyes, the sa tension, the sa fear. But fate had destroyed that version of himself within the half year he had spent in this body. Half a year, Paul thought, a flicker of nostalgia crossing his eyes. It feels so much longer.
He looked around. A young couple walked hand in hand, smiling. A child sat on the curb farther down the street, clutching his knee as tears welled up. An old woman carried a bag of potatoes. The warm sumr breeze brushed against Paul’s face, tousling his hair.
"Ti. So need more, others less," Paul whispered, taking a deep drag as the smoke curled upward toward the dark, starry sky. "Look around you — that’s the indomitable human spirit. Everything heals with ti, sotis even stronger than before. But so scars always remain."
He glanced down at his torso. "As a soldier, your body rarely has ti to heal. The scars go deeper, they hurt more. That’s the reality. So if you’re not ready for pain..." — he looked to the side, where a woman was sweeping dust from the steps of an old building with a worn-out broom — "...then you’d better beco one of them."
Hasso gulped, taking it all in. He looked around, studying the city’s residents, then glanced back at Paul before slowly asking, "What about you? Do you want to beco soone like them?"
Paul’s jaw tightened.
"I was like them once, exactly the sa. But right now, I couldn’t be further away..." He paused, his eyes drifting upward. "Perhaps one day."
Paul looked up at the full moon blooming in the sky, its pale light spilling over the city below.
"I will keep following, my path and I will succed."Hasso proclaid.
"That you will." Paul patted Hasso on the shoulder, then turned and walked back toward the bar.
A soldier was already waiting and snapped a quick salute. "Sir, the waiter has spoken. The forces inside the city hall number about three hundred. They’ve set up defenses around the building with heavy machine-gun nests. They also have artillery and anti-air guns."
Paul nodded. "We knew that. What about the tunnel?"
"The Spanish use it as a supply tunnel, with the waiter and the bar supplying them secretly." The soldier glanced toward Hasso.
"So we have their supply route?" Hasso asked.
"Seems so," Paul answered.
"But the waiter said the far end of the tunnel is heavily guarded, and an iron grating keeps anyone unauthorized out," the Spanish soldier added.
Paul’s brow furrowed. "Then how do the waiter and the supplies get in?"
"They have an agreed ti, midnight exactly — when they open the gate and let the waiter through," the soldier said, excited.
Paul looked at Hasso, who already knew what Paul wanted to ask. "It’s 11:30 p.m."
Paul ordered quickly. "Hasso, wake our n. And you... Alvarez, was it?"
"Yes, sir," Alvarez replied.
"Alvarez, you’ll make that waiter submit, he’s the key to the tunnel operation. You’ll co with us; we’ll need a Spanish translator. And send soone to inform Major Ramírez of the latest developnts. We go in at midnight."
"I will do so, sir," Alvarez responded. The man had fought in the highway battle and knew it had been Paul’s plan. Since then, he had beco one of the many admirers Paul had earned.
After so waiting, Paul heard the familiar sound of soldiers’ boots, that steady, marching rhythm. From around the corner, his n appeared: twenty good, battle-hardened soldiers. The Elite Hasso and him had handpicked.
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