Beauty and the Beast
The Aragon Front, August 1937

With a pair of welding goggles shoved up on his grimy brow, The Major emerged wearily from the dimness of the ruined building into the dazzling brightness of the Belchite road. The whole village had turned out to witness the miracle, waiting tensely, chattering in uncharacteristically low voices.
For the past two nights and days, the burned-out cinema had thundered with noise — banging, clattering, hissing, fizzing, sawing, grinding; all accompanied by billowing clouds of smoke lit up by crackling flashes of blue light from a welder’s arc lamp.
Anna lit a cigarette and waited for the show.
“Are you ready, Jock?”
“Ready — aye ready, miss!”
She smiled and handed him a mug of coffee. He added a huge jolt of Old Gold Watch whisky to it, cocked his head over his shoulder and let out a long, painful whistle.
Instantly, there was a hollow roar and a cloud of diesel fumes rolled out from the darkness behind him. As he walked slowly forward, dust drifted down from the ruined roof and broken glass rattled in the window frames. Something huge followed him out onto the trembling earth. It had the rough outlines of a truck or maybe a bus, but it was bigger — much bigger — and covered in armour plating. Machine guns and rifles bristled obscenely from every orifice and turret.
“I don’t know how you manage it, Major,” said Anna, shaking her head admiringly.
“I keep telling you, miss — I’m a fuckin’ magician!”
As always, his enthusiasm was contagious. The villagers gasped in amazement, then began to clap and cheer loudly. He turned to look at his creation, then faced the audience, beaming at them proudly.
“Ladies and gentlemen. I give you Kong — the Eighth Wonder of the World!”
Seconds later, the first shell fell on the far side of the square.
