(no subject)
Francisco Jose de Goya, The third of May, 1808, 1814.
A deep and primal scream echoes across the valley. A final testament to the man that was, in that moment. An affirmation of life and existence. Then the cranking gunshot. Silence.
The next man is brought to the front and dragged before the firing squad. The French soldiers are handed their rifles as their officer reloads the barrels they just emptied. A look of boredom seems to be on their faces as they put the powder into place. They may have been running drills, for all their lack of interest. The condemned before them wimpers and prays to an indifferent god. The man before me cries out loud, almost drowning out the sound of the gunshots as the body knelt in prayer falls back upon the pile.
I watch the officer reload their guns for them yet again. You see, if a single rifle shoots a man from that distance it is unlikely that the shot shall kill him straight away. Wound him, cerainly. Perhaps even mortally. However it takes the combined effort of all five riflemen to ensure and execution. The officer places a blank in one of the guns each time, so that the soldiers shooting never really know if they fired a shot or not. Perhps they weren't responsible for the death they saw before them at all. Our uprising in Madrid against our French oppressors has ensured that on this, the morning of our deaths, that we had all seen plenty of death.
The soldiers raise their guns again. I'm almost amused by the mechanical motion in their arms. Crane my neck to see if they have a wind-up key poking out of their back. Of course, there's none.
This morning is a massacre. Yet traditions, being as they are, must be kept to fortify the honour of such bloodshed. The officer reloads the guns again and puts a blank into one at random. The 5 soldiers surely muct see this as a sham. The line of condemned strectches down the hill. Do they really believe that they may have the blank for each of us? Iwonder if the have a wife and child at home, and whether they wonder about my wife and son. A one in five chance for each of us that they may not be responsible for our deaths. An eighty percent likelihood that they had shot the man in front of them. Even then, are the really responsible? Afterall a single shot would only maim. It requires all four real shots to kill.
Another volley of fire. I see the soldier's eyes now, they seem not to see me at all. Devoid of all reponsibility by a neat little piece of mental arithmatic.
I approach the front of the line, only one before me now. I wonder how I will go. In tears, with a final life-affirming scream of defiance or in prayer and in hope? Which would be more fitting for the life that I have lived? I must plan this moment as it shall be the final testament of my existance. Naturally, when the soldiers come to grab me I haven't reached any conclusions.
I, as all do, am dragged off with whimpers and screams.
I'm shoved into position before the firing squad. Suddenly, a moment of clarity strikes me. The soldiers rise their guns.
"Un..."
"Deaux..."
"Cada uno de sus tiros mataráI!" I shout above the noise. A final triumph, an affirmation of their own denied guilt and a testament to what they had done here today.
"Trois!"
The crack of gunfire fills the air.
If only they could speak Spanish...
***
Sometimes it's fun to imagine you're someone else. Even when it's not somebody you'd ever want to swap places with.
Nevertheless, I think I'd still prefer to be in th posotion of the Spanish revolutionary than the French soldier. It seems more fitting.