John Hopkins

News has just come in, he tells them.

The nearby town of Guernica has just been hit by Franco's forces.

And it's bad.

Really bad.

George is on his feet and out of the door within seconds, the others hot on his heels.

The journalists pile into the two cars they have between them, parked on the curb outside the hotel.

Within moments, the engines are roaring to life, and they are speeding out of Bilbao and into the deep blue of the spring night.

Evidence of Guernica's destruction reaches when they're still some way away.

The midnight sky, so clear at the start of their journey, becomes choked with oily grey smoke, the burning town lighting up the distant horizon.

Through the passenger side window, George watches an ever-growing stream of people fleeing in the direction of Bilbao.

As the reporters close in on their destination, the sheer number of refugees forces them to slow.

There are ox carts loaded with towering piles of furniture, desperate mothers holding wailing children in their arms, and couples dragging bags of clothes that look ready to burst at the seams.

Finally, they reach Guernica's outskirts.

The driver parks the car and George climbs out, clutching his notebook tightly and picking a street at random to lead him towards the center.

Fighting for breath in the thick smoke, he steps carefully through the rubble of what was clearly once a greengrocer's shop.

Fruit and vegetables, now trampled to mulch, lie strewn among the broken stonework.

With the toe of his shoe, he turns over a bomb fragment, upon which words are printed in German.

He jumps as an almighty crash sounds from up ahead.

A building at the end of the street has collapsed, sending a shower of sparks in all directions.

He retraces his steps and tries another road, but is waved back by a team of firemen.