He remembered her. It had been long ago and far away, yes, but still he remembered those four nights when they had shared life, and love, and lust, and liberty.

The cold rain of November whipped his face, freezing in his beard and eyelashes. Gripping his rifle tighter he wondered where she was now. The Facists had bombed the village, so she was probably dead.

They were all dead. Juan, Ascencion, Mac. Mac had caught it while using the latrine. He didn't want to go that way or that badly. He was all that was left.

There was a motorcycle on the road below. Screw it, he thought, let him go. Why bother anymore? Franco was going to win anyway, and the International Brigade was finished.

He got to his feet, slowly, his bones aching in the cold, slashing, rain. It was going to turn to sleet any time now, he mused. Had to get to Pedro's before then or spend the night in the cold.

From Pedro's to the border, from the border to Bordeaux, from Bordeaux to London, from London back to New York. Probably have to shovel coal the whole way. Parents would be glad to see him, though. Probably a good thing that he'd enlisted under a false name, too.

Too bad about her, he thought again. And he disappeared into the rain.