We — that is, myself, the various madly-retreating “Spanish Nationalist”:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Franquism troops with which I was traveling, and “Generalissimo Francisco Franco”:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Franquism — were trudging through a lightly-forested area of gently rolling and quite verdant hills. The sky was clear and the sun bright, but we didn’t expect the three Republican fighters that appeared in the distance, charging towards us.
One fighter after the next dove quickly down, plummeting at a 45° angle as they strafed our disorganized company. I just stood there and watched, enjoying the view as the white planes, with their orange engine cowls and brown wingtips, spatted landing gear, and tails, zipped past.
The planes made five or six strafing passes without hurting anyone, when I began to worry about the Generalissimo. The planes seemed to be approaching from the sun, so I told him to stand right behind a tree that itself stood between us and the sun. As we walked around the tree we saw that there were already 3 or 4 men of South Asian extraction standing there, watching the show in safety. Out of ideas, I suggested the Generalissimo stand a few feet behind those men. Then I walked into the trees to stand back and watch myself.
I was very surprised when the next plane zipped past, not from the sun behind me where I expected it but from my right, flying only 5 or 6 feet off the ground as it traveled down a natural avenue between the trees. Although the two machineguns in its wings sparkled, there was nobody in front of it to get hit; we were all to the side, watching the plane pass (in fact, to this time, nobody had been hurt in the attack).
The plane was so close that I knew I could shoot it down if I just had a gun. “A pity this is just a dream,” I thought, “because, were I really in this situation, I’d have something to shoot this guy with.” I straightened my thumb and pointer fingers and pointed them at the plane like a gun. “Pow, pow, pow” I said. Suddenly, there was a gun in my hand, and I shot the plane 10 times. I could see the holes in the matte white metal.
Then the dream rewound. “I couldn’t shoot the plane 10 times, my gun only has 9 rounds!” The effect of the 10th bullet was magically erased. But, wounded, the plane bellied down into the deep, soft grass. “I’d better load another magazine in case I need to shoot the pilot.” I thought to myself, and so I did, dropping the empty magazine to my left.
Then Wesley Snipes got out of the plane. “Goddamn it, why did you have to go do that” he yelled at me, stern, all John Cutter from “Passenger 57″:http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0105104/-like.  “We had a great thing going here! We were going to make so much money on the movie. All you had to do was not mess everything up.” He was walking up on me fast, and I didn’t like his attitude, so I shot him clear through, just above his heart.
fn1. For geeks like me, they looked like the “Ki-15″:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mitsubishi_Ki-15 from the back of the wing forward and like the “I-16″:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Polikarpov_I-16 from the back of the wing to the tail.
fn2. Can you think of anybody else with the actual title of Generalissimo besides Franco and Chiang Kai-Shek, two murderous anti-communists of the same era?
fn3. I was wrong; “the gun I imagined only holds 8 shots!”:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M1911
fn4. Always bet on black.
fn5. Yes, he did say “mess.” Dialogue isn’t my strength.
fn6. Strangely, I didn’t feel guilty for killing Wesley Snipes when I woke up. But being on Franco’s side? What’s up with that?