A short and solid old man climbs through the mountains as a goat, guiding a band of Spanish rebels to blow up a bridge and stop the fascist army from marching onto the city of Segovia. He had to shoot a sentry on the bridge and tears rolled down his grey stubble while his comrades shouted: ‘nice hunt!’. These were no animals, these were brothers, there is no atonement for this, he thought to himself. The battle went on while he placed explosives on the bridge
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A cracking roar, the bridge rose up in the air like a wave, acrid smoke rolled over him, and pieces of steel rained down. With a loop of wire in his right fist he lay face down behind a white marking stone and he felt that all was right