El Puente Nuevo, Ronda, Spain 1936

Look how they fall like angels to the earth! But no soft landing down amongst those rocks. Those devils on the bridge with gleeful mirth Terrorised the townsfolk as wolves do flocks Of sheep at lambing time. For all their worth, They searched shuttered houses and smashed the locks Of any door, they could not open wide, Dragged out the frightened men hiding inside Battered them senseless to the dusty ground In gutters, awash with their comrades’ blood Each in their own vomit and bile half-drowned. They lay gasping like fish stranded on mud. The narrow streets echoing with the sound Of their screaming and each rifle-butt’s thud. My God, who are these beasts in human form Whose hearts the desert sun could never warm? They are Francisco Franco’s native troops, Moroccan Regulares, so I’m told. Free to rape and kill, they are the first groups Into attack. Completely uncontrolled, Each Regulare picks his prey and swoops Raping, maiming, and killing young or old. Just the threat of unleashing these fierce hawks Compels Comrade Republicans to talks.