His hands are raw and bleeding.
“Help me. Please. My children, my wife are under here,” he sobs.
He has a gaping cut from his right ear across to his nose. I am aware that his jacket is
shredded, revealing deep cuts to his upper right arm and his neck, yet he still has his beret on his
head. I ignore him and continue to clamber over rubble.
The pile of stones and twisted metal beneath my feet suddenly feels different. I stop
walking and look towards the ground. Horrified, I realise that I am standing on someone’s foot.
There is no leg attached to the foot; it has no body; it is one foot and its toes are black and
smoking. The pungent smell of its burning toenails are filling my mind with memories of when
the blacksmith fitted new shoes to our horse. I retch and reel backwards losing my balance and
twisting my ankle as I fall to the ground. Blood-stained bricks and shreds of textiles are everywhere
and I dare not look closely at the rubble for fear of seeing the other foot; or worse, the face of the
person who owns the foot. I have no voice with which to cry. I cannot describe the unbearable pain
in my heart and the terror I am feeling.
Screams penetrate my head, becoming louder and louder. They are the cries of children,
women and grown men searching for their loved ones, and helping those who are injured. Men
are pulling mattresses from piles of rubble and laying the injured on top of them. The dead are
scattered all around.
People are running again. Above the screams I can hear the roar of the plane. Panicking,
I spring to my feet. In spite of the pain in my ankle, fear is at the forefront of my mind and I am
running with everyone else. I lift my eyes to the sky. I can see four planes. They look the same
as the first one which came, flying in from the north and heading for the town again. Some of the
people are stopping and staring up at the sky, their mouths are gaping in disbelief at the planes. I
feel too afraid to stop so I push my way through the townsfolk and I keep running, heading down
towards the river.
The bombs are falling, whistling as they rush through the air. Walls are crashing to the
ground. Fires are burning in every part of the town that I can see. There are huge holes, craters,
in the streets where the bombs have already landed. They look as deep as a three storey building.
I am fighting my way around the holes, still moving as fast as I can, afraid that a bomb is going to
land near me.
A bomb falls at the far end of the street near to the Hotel Julian. I can only stand and
watch, helplessly, as dozens of people are ripped from the ground with the force of the blast. I
can do nothing to help. Part of the hotel wall collapses and is burning fiercely. The bodies of my
friends and fellow villagers are plummeting from the sky, landing on top of the flaming rubble. I am
screaming but still no sound comes from within me. I continue running forward in the direction of
the hotel ruins, scrambling across the piles of rocks and lifeless bodies. Disconnected limbs and
torsos are scattered across the destruction. I place my hands on top of my head protectively, and I
keep on running, turning left at the top of the street into Calle Don Tello.
The planes are flying above the town on my left hand side. My legs carry me across the
street and into the grass at the side of the Mundaca River. I fall to my knees and lay face down into
the grass, remembering Papa telling me that if I ever need to hide, I should lay still and pretend I
was dead. Even away from the buildings, the air is laden with dust and grit.
The planes are leaving the town, flying south. I dare not move in case they return for a
third time. As I lay in the grass all I now hear is the sounds of brickwork crumbling to the ground
and the crackling and hissing of fires.
I give thanks to God, for at this moment the sky is quiet and I drag myself a few metres
along through the grass to be nearer to the river where the grass is taller.
I can hear more planes coming. The droning sound is deep and it’s coming closer every
second. People are once more screaming and wailing. I lay still in the grass, on my back, afraid
even to breathe in case I am spotted.
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