The Courier of Zaragoza (Part 4)
Riding into the breach.
Welcome Back to Signals, the short-story section of Monochrome. Please enjoy this installment of my historical fiction series, ‘The Courier of Zaragoza,’ set against the backdrop of the Spanish Civil War.1 For a recap, here’s: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
—Zaragoza military district, Nationalist Head Quarters, Wednesday, 0500 HRS
Major Juan Torres, Aide-de-Camp to Generalissimo Francisco Franco, leader of the Nationalist rebels, adjusted his uniform and drummed his fingers impatiently on the chair's armrest. The weight of his critical mission pressed down on him. Sleep had been a stranger for the past two days, and it likely wouldn't return for another forty-eight hours.
Despite the complexities of the mission, Major Torres wasn't worried about the plan itself. It seemed well thought-out. No, his real concern was the uncertainty of success and the certainty required of it.
The pressure even affected those around him—his attendant kept brewing endless coffee and supplying him with a steady stream of Compañía Arrendataria de Tabacos cigarettes. This intangible threat loomed large—risk, the ever-present danger that could derail even the most meticulous plans.
How am I to impress the importance of this mission on the mind of this courier?
Major Torres had always been obsessed with getting things right. It was almost an instinct, a driving force that compelled him to solve problems until they were perfect, until he felt a deep satisfaction. This relentless pursuit of certainty propelled him to the top of his class in military training and leadership positions throughout his meteoric career.
Eventually, his ambition led him to link the fate of his career to a rising star – a young, cunning commander named Francisco Franco in the Spain’s Army of Africa. Franco's explosive rise to power ultimately landed Major Torres the prestigious title of Aide-de-Camp, essentially the personal secretary and gatekeeper, to the Nationalist leader. By all appearances, Torres should have been content. He'd achieved a level of success beyond his wildest dreams. Yet, contentment remained elusive.
What truly worried him was the circumstances surrounding the mission. Only hours ago, Franco had demanded they choose a courier to deliver a critical message from Zaragoza to Castillo de Aínsa. If it arrived on time, it could save a man's life.
An order from Franco alone usually instilled fear and urgency in anyone under his control. But Major Torres sensed something even more significant hung in the balance…
He always believed in gathering all the information before solving a problem. It had served his superior, the Generalissimo, well so far and he hoped his valuable judgment wouldn't be forgotten after the war. However, this same attention to detail now presented a difficult choice. His conscience compelled him to break protocol and confidentiality.
And so, he had surreptitiously read a Top Secret report revealing a shocking truth: General Valderrama, the condemned leader of the International Brigades, was Franco's second cousin! Before receiving the report, the Generalissimo had unwittingly sentenced Valderrama to death by firing squad based on a military tribunal's judgment. But this could not stand, which must have been why Franco was so adamant about immediately rescinding the order.
Major Torres understood the gravity of the situation. If the execution went through, news would travel fast through the army ranks. These officers were a conservative bunch, almost all Catholic by their own claim.
They would never tolerate a leader who committed parricide. He envisioned the fallout as a wildfire, leaving careers and reputations in ashes—and if Franco fell, so would he!
The stakes couldn’t be higher. Major Torres bypassed the usual pleasantries and small talk when Corporal Miguel Santos, Fifth Brigade Motorcycle Platoon, reported to his office.
Corporal Miguel Santos snapped a sharp salute, then sat in a chair facing Major Torres’s desk as directed. The Major studied the young soldier, gauging his physical fitness, mental alertness, and overall spirit. After all, Santos had a reputation – his chain of command touted him as the best courier in the entire army, regardless of vehicle.
Corporal Santos, a fit young man in his mid-20s, had earned his reputation the hard way. Last year in Morocco, he'd pulled off a daring operation behind enemy lines, earning him praise from his battalion commander. Now, as the wiry motorcyclist awaited his orders, he couldn't help but notice the tension radiating from Major Torres. The Major's gaze held an intensity that made Santos feel like he was being weighed and measured for a monumental task.
This sense of immense gravity emanating from the Major triggered a faint memory in Santos from that day in Morocco…
The desert wind whipped his goggles, stinging his eyes and adding another layer of grime to his already dust-caked face. He hunched low over the handlebars of his motorcycle, a Royal Enfield Bullet 500, the thrum of the engine a constant beating counterpoint to his hammering heart. Sweat snaked down his temples, mingling with the grease smudging his forehead. The maps strapped inside the saddlebags rattled with every bump, each bounce a bracing jolt of anxiety. These weren't just any maps; they were the key to a surprise attack Franco's forces were planning against a Republican stronghold. The weight of that knowledge, the lives it could save or doom, bore down on Santos like the relentless Moroccan sun…
After deftly dodging the Republican positions, several times he had been within small arms fire and each time he skillfully weaved into winding streets of the bazaars, saving him from certain capture, arrest, interrogation, and…death. At the end of the day, he had successfully delivered the maps to his superior officer, who, upon opening the special parcels, became incredulous with the recognition of Private Santos’s verve in the face of enemy fire.
He had earned the praise of the Commander, the rank of Corporal, Franco’s forces advanced, eventually winning the Morocco campaign, and the rest…is history.
"Corporal, are you listening carefully?" Major Torres asked, his head cocked slightly. A look of concern flickered in his eyes as he searched the young courier's face. Lost in a sudden memory, Santos hadn't paid as close attention as he should've while the Major outlined the delivery route. In truth, he knew the path like the back of his hand, yet the urgency in Major Torres' voice had been impossible to miss.
"Sir," Santos sat up straight, not allowing his back to rest in the chair, a touch of urgency replacing his earlier daze. "Could you repeat what I should do if captured by the enemy?"
"Right," the Major replied curtly, a hint of sarcasm creeping into his smile. He was incensed with the implication that Santos might be captured. "This is simple, Corporal. General Franco does not tolerate traitors. If you're taken, remember this: any information given to the enemy will reflect poorly on your use…I should say, your service… to the Nation of Spain."
The Major swallowed his next words, thankful he'd dodged revealing the real stakes. "Let's just say it’s your duty to avoid capture at all costs, Corporal. The ultimate price will be paid for failure. This mission is...exceptionally critical, not just for me, but for each one of us."
He let that weight settle on Santos before adding, "If anyone tries to stop you, you've got your pistol, haven't you? Consider my words as full authorization from the Highest Convening Authority.” the Major’s eyes rolled upward as he said this, intimating to Santos that he was referring to the Generalissimo himself, “Soldiers are not punished for using force that the mission demands."
Santos had never fired his weapon in combat, but he knew if the time came, he'd do as he must. A sudden awareness of the holstered pistol on his left hip hit him. It was the old service revolver he'd inherited from a now deceased courier in the motor pool, not optimal, but it would have to do. The Major, sensing no further questions, said, "That will be all Corporal. Let's get you on your way, then."
Santos understood the briefing was over and snapped to attention. This was a high-priority delivery – a fast ride about 60 miles north into the Pyrenees to Castillo de Aínsa.
The package was to be delivered straight to the Captain of the Guards, a man named Mendoza. Major Torres described him as a stocky Castilian in his early thirties with hazel eyes and a distinctive chevron mustache.
"Excellent. Remember, radio silence the entire mission. We don't want to risk alerting the enemy. Stay off the main roads as much as possible, Corporal. Your motorcycle expertise will be crucial. Take extra rations, water, and a full fuel canister."
"Already prepped, sir!" the Corporal confirmed, his voice firm. But then he hesitated for a moment. "Sir, if I may, I have one question."
“What is it?” the Major asked.
"I was wondering if I'm going alone. Wouldn't it be safer to have a backup team, maybe take different routes? That way, if someone stopped me..." Corporal Santos paused, searching for the right words, "...others could still get through."
Impatience registered across the Major's face. Every passing minute felt like a missed opportunity. He glanced down at his desk, briefly closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as if to physically push away the mounting stress.
"Corporal," Major Torres said, weariness laced with a tinge of anger. "While I appreciate the concern, mission details are above your pay grade. Imagine if we sent a flock of pigeons for every message—the war would grind to a halt, and the enemy would crack our codes in no time. Besides, the roads to the fortress are a mess— bombed, booby-trapped, and partially barricaded.
Even armored vehicles wouldn't make it. The Italian Air Force is on our side, but they're not perfect—they hit one of our own trucks last week. Trains and planes are out of the question as well. You, Corporal Santos, and your motorcycle are our only option."
There was nothing left to say between them. All that remained was a mutual acknowledgement, familiar to all professional soldiers, that duty must be done regardless of the cost. The silence stretched, then Major Torres spoke. "Alright, Corporal. Godspeed. Do not fail to deliver this message to Captain Mendoza. Today! Tomorrow is not an option."
The Corporal tucked the message into a hidden pocket of his motorcycle jacket, saluted sharply, and strode purposefully out of the office. Outside, clouds were gathering. They could offer welcome cover for his approach, but also potentially blur his vision on the winding roads. Rain would be a complication he couldn't afford to consider right now.
Helmet and gloves secured, Santos turned his attention to his motorcycle. He gave it a thorough once-over, checking tire pressure, fluid levels, and overall condition. This mission called for a Royal Enfield J Model, one of many captured from the Republicans early in the war. This particular bike had been given a neutral olive drab paint job, with "Correos" – the mail service usually left untouched by both sides – stenciled prominently on the gas tank.
The hope was that the lettering would signal neutrality to Nationalist forces. For the Republicans, a quick glance through their rifle scope might mistake him for one of their own. Luck, he realized, would play a big part in this mission.
The Corporal fired up his motorcycle, clicked it into gear, and was about to take off when a private sprinted out of headquarters. He held a forest-green woolen bundle in his right hand. "Corporal, wait!" the private gasped, catching his breath. "Major Torres sent this. It's a new one, straight from the factory. 'Don't hesitate to use it!' he said."
The private unwrapped the cloth, revealing a gleaming Astral 400 pistol with 9mm Largo rounds. One bullet was already chambered, which was helpful because the direct-blowback operation of the pistol meant it was very difficult to chamber the first round. Nevertheless, the firearm was notorious for its reliability and accuracy, coveted by both Nationalist and Republican soldiers.
Santos had never even laid eyes on one, let alone held it. In his hands, it felt like a weapon unlike any other –it felt revolutionary. Stamped in white lettering on the barrel close to the trigger was the legendary manufacturer ‘ESPERANZA Y UNCETA’ along with the city ‘Guernica España.’ The Corporal accepted the weapon, its weight a grim reminder of the mission's dangers.
After handing his old revolver with its holster to the private, Santos secured the Astral in a jacket pocket with a satisfying snap. Goggles on, he eased onto the throttle and steered the motorcycle away from the camp, seeking the backroads that offered lower visibility. He adopted a leisurely pace, mimicking a postman more than a soldier on a life-or-death mission.
For the first few minutes, things went smoothly. The engine purred, the sky held a clear grayness, and no danger appeared. With luck, he'd reach Castillo de Aínsa before lunch and be back home by dinner.
But after turning onto a side road to avoid the main route, a sound cut through the engine's rumble—thunder, rolling in from somewhere ahead. Rain seemed inevitable, but he could still make good time. Yet, the constant rumble of thunder from the same spot piqued his curiosity. It shouldn't be like this..
A jolt of memory struck Santos. Major Torres had mentioned fighting in the mountain pass between him and the castle. Now, a terrible realization dawned. This wasn't a thunderstorm—it was the booming roar of a full-blown artillery barrage. He was riding straight into a firefight…
History:
An Introduction to the Spanish Civil War
The Spanish Civil War, Illustrated
I hope you enjoyed this post! Subscribers will automatically receive the final installment of ‘The Courier of Zaragoza’ when it’s published. In the meantime, check out this article from Moto one of our newest sections, it’s about the allure and craftsmanship motorcycling.
All images modified from Canva.