The Gramophone that played to the Mist by Keith Hansen 2000

Grinding earth and cobblestones, thrown hard against the hewn stone buildings of the poor Spanish
village. The German built tanks, their metal tracks ripping apart the main street that wound its way to
the village square. At one point the tank commander arose from the main torrent hatch, shouting
orders to the driver to manoeuvre the metal beast.
Turn a hard corner to clear the fountain the voice yelled in a dialect of Spanish which I could
barely understand. The tank mounted and broke the stone bench that surrounded the fountain and
acted as a well for the needs of the village. As the churning metal tracks broke the stone, crushing
three hundred years of history that had even withstood and survived the Bourbon invasion and many
revolutions. The water flowed onto the street causing the tank tracks to shower the debris of war with
spin water.
We remained hidden on the second floor above the butchery, leaning hard out of the cedar
famed windows to see the German built Fascist tanks below. Three in all. They demolished their way
to the centre of the town. Beside me crouched a middle aged Basque militia fighter. His nimble
hands, those of a tailor in peacetime, poured the last remaining petrol into the heavy champagne
bottles he had stuffed with rags. Around his neck he wore a heavy cotton scarf, embroider with the
Republican ensign.
He wiped the stubble of his short cropped greying beard and said in a practiced manner. 'It is best to
make sure the mouth of the bottle is tightly sealed, as the taper wick could come loose and set you
alight. I nodded and took one of the Molotov cocktails and balanced it in the palm of my hand.
Anton drew closer to the edge of the cedar framed window, the smell of the smouldering timber
filling my nostrils.
I am hoping that the devils fire shall reward the fascist tanks with an evil reward. Anton said with
a look of terror in his eyes.
To holt the tanks, that would be a great advantage for the republican troops I replied. 'And give us
time to regroup.'
Anton reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved a rope lighter. A very crude form of fire
technology. One step above a tinder box and yet it worked. I drew out my brass Zippo lighter and we
lit the petrol soaked wicks together. He motioned me towards the window and we threw the flaming
bottles towards the heavy metal turret on the lead tank. A gust of flame erupted as the glass shattered
into splinters. The burning liquid seeping into the hollows and cracks of the metal tank casing. After
what seemed like an eternity the top hatch flew open. A black uniformed officer scrambled out the
flames licking at the leather of his gun boots. An eruption followed as the ammunition inside the
blazing vehicle exploded causing the side of the building to buckle and collapse onto the now
stationary tank. As the second tank was now trapped behind the first the third began reversing trying
to avoid hitting the shelled shocked buildings of the winding street.
If you help me carry the last of the Molotovs to the far end of the building we shall be able to
finish the tanks. Anton said with a puerile enthusiasm a half smile on his now blackned face.
We collected the petrol filled bottles and moved to the far windows below where the German tanks
had been grouping in the village square.
'You shall light the taper and I shall throw the Molotov cocktails. With any luck we should be able to
do incredble damage to the tanks.' Anton said.
Lighting the first bomb I passed it to Anton who clenched it and threw the flaming missile towards an
underlying vehicle. Flames erupted from the courtyard and we could feel the spray of return fire from
the German infantry below us.
'Lets give them more.' I yelled amid the racket.
'Yes a good volley will halt them in their tracks.' Anton called.

Rearmed a dozen of the burning projectiles launched into the air falling below onto the now blazing
convoy. Broken guns were now in silence as dazed German soldiers tried to regroup amid the
crossfire.
'That is our effort for a free Spain. The Germans shall be very angry.' I said
The anger they feel is of their own making.' Anton replied. He paused and took a deep breath.
'Once Generalissimo Franco was asked...what is the difference between you and Adolf Hitler?' Anton
laughed softly and continued. 'Adolf Hitler is a second rate dictator in charge of a first rate country.
Where as I, being a first rate dictator in charge of a poor second rate country.'
'Very good Anton. That sums it all up ..in a sense.' I replied
Across the green wooded valley where the basalt cliffs rose up. Goats were bleating to call lost
companions. Near the village where flames roared on the burning wreckage, the morning mist was
lifting. Strains of music played from a gramophone in an apartment in the village square. The strains
lilted from the old machine of a piece of piano music from Villa Lobos. I'm sure it was his Rondo. A
mist rose as liquid vapour across the Spanish hills, and as a glass of fine brandy, it also evaporated
with the passage of time.