Free Young Lions Roar by Andrew Mackay

Carlos,” Borghese continued. “Even if we’ve gotten away with it, they certainly won’t.” He pointed outside to the other two members of
the assassination squad who were swiftly approaching the front of the queue where the Sergeant Major was waiting. “I don’t mean to be rude; the boys are born killers and I’d
sooner have them beside me in a fight than anyone else, but they’re hardly the sharpest knives in the drawer. That bloody cop will have them confessing to being Spanish hitmen before they
have time to sing ‘The song of the Legiónary.’” Borghese shook his head. “Two pairs of South Americans on the same night are too much of a coincidence.”
    Borghese walked outside, where he swiftly caught the eye of his other two hitmen. Borghese shook his head from side to side, and the two would-be assassins immediately left the queue and
wandered off as if they were looking for a less busy venue.
    Borghese breathed a giant sigh of relief and walked back in to rendezvous with Ramirez.
    “It’s just you and me now, Carlos,” Borghese said grimly. “Are you ready for this?”
    “I was born ready, Jefe,” Ramirez said brazenly.
    Borghese laughed and clapped Ramirez on the shoulder. “I knew that I could count on you, Carlos!”
    Ramirez flashed his set of pearly whites. “Two’s company and four’s a crowd, Jefe. Besides, Antonio and Enrique are rotten shots. They’d just slow us down.”
    Borghese was too busy laughing to notice Hauptwachtmeister Bratge turn around and stare after them as they walked towards the bar.

Chapter Five
    The Battle of the Ebro River, Catalonia, Spain, August 1938.
    El Bonito lowered his binoculars and spoke in a low voice to his Runner. “Bob, pass the word along: stand to, the Fascists are massing for a new attack, everyone is to
open fire with everything that we’ve got when I give the order by whistle blast, and not a moment before. Understood?”
    “Yes, boss. Understood,” Bob replied with a smile, before he took off as fast as his young legs could carry him, running down the zigzag network of trenches.
    Captain Juan Mendoza shouted at the top of his voice “Viva España! Viva la Legión!” He blew his whistle and clambered out of his foxhole with his
pistol in his hand. Three companies of the XVIIth Bandera of the Spanish Foreign Legión followed Mendoza over the top and repeated the slogan that echoed around the valley. The Moorish
troops advancing on the Bandera’s left flank joined in the general cacophony with high-pitched battle cries that were designed to unnerve and intimidate their Republican opponents. The
Legiónaries advanced rapidly up Dead Man’s Hill, that had been given its nick name as a result of the Nationalist’s repeated failed attempts to capture the hill from their
Republican enemies. The hill was literally strewn with a carpet of Legiónary and Moor corpses and it was almost possible to walk all the way to the top on bodies without one’s feet
touching the stony ground.
    “Right on cue,” Mendoza said, as he heard a barrage of shells fired by a German Condor Legión Artillery Battery fly over head to crash onto the Republican trenches.
    “Take cover!” El Bonito shouted as the shells landed on the Republican position. He dived to the ground of the trench and covered his head with his hands as a shell
exploded a dozen yards away, collapsing a bunker and burying its occupants alive inside. Shells continued to land in front of, behind and on top of the Republican position, until the artillery
barrage suddenly stopped. El Bonito heard another whistle blast and loud cheering from nearby, which could only mean one thing.
    “Stand to!” El Bonito rushed to the trench firing step, hoisted himself up, and shouted “Battalion! One hundred! To the front! Rapid fire!”
    The British Battalion’s six surviving Maxim machine guns and five hundred assorted rifles opened fire at virtually point-blank range into the shocked and