by Various Orca
I went for lunch today with the nurse who lives nearby. Her family welcomed me as one of their own and freely shared what little food they had. Unfortunately, they had considerable wine, and after a couple of glasses on a near-empty stomach, I committed the unpardonable sin of dozing off during Winnie’s lecture this afternoon. As a punishment, I was made to clean the toilets out back, a truly disgusting job that I had avoided up until now.
Despite scrubbing my skin raw, I still smell like a barnyard and barely have the strength to hold this pen steady. I wanted to put down the good news, but now I shall sleep and dream of a tomorrow without Winnie.
JULY 1
Dominion Day for the Canadians. No Red Ensigns or patriotic songs, but the Mac-Paps’ flag was held high and the Internationale sung lustily. The flag is a large rectangle of red bearing the words CANADA’S MACKENZIE-PAPINEAU BATTALION, 1837–1937, Fascism shall be destroyed. It also sports a raised fist over a red star and a green maple leaf. It’s very grand, and I got a lump in my throat as we sang beneath it.
We new recruits have been formed into a squad under a Canadian officer. His name is Pat Forest, but everyone calls him Tiny because he is over six feet tall and almost that wide across the shoulders. He’s a dedicated Communist and was a stevedore on the Vancouver docks. He’s been over here since January 1937 and has been wounded FOUR times. The men say it’s because he’s such a large target.
As I had been told, most of the Mac-Paps now are young Spaniards. Some of them look even younger than I do! Tiny told us that there are Canadians scattered in other units as well. He knows of several boys in the Dabrowski Battalion because they had recently immigrated to Canada from Eastern Europe and they felt more comfortable with the language in that battalion. It’s all very strange, but there’s a feeling that nationality doesn’t matter. We’re all here for the same reason.
The Mac-Paps suffered heavily in the spring battles, but despite that, the mood is good and everyone is certain that we will win the battle that all know is coming soon.
“We’ll beat those sons-of-guns,” Tiny declared this afternoon. Actually “sons-of-guns” is not what he really said, but I don’t feel comfortable writing down the real word. “The governments in Canada, Britain and America will see what we can do and finally realize that we have to stand up to Fascism, and the sooner we do it, the better it’ll be. They don’t even need to fight, just give us some decent tanks, planes and machine guns, and we’ll do the job for them. If we win in Spain, you just watch Hitler and Mussolini run scared. Like all bullies, they’re cowards at heart.”
“And as we march triumphantly into Burgos to put Franco on trial for war crimes, we’ll look up and see a flock of pigs winging their way overhead.” This was from Hugh, a short, skinny guy who peers out from behind thick round spectacles; he’s the only veteran apart from Tiny in our squad. He was a schoolteacher in Winnipeg before he was fired for corrupting the young minds of his students with Communist ideas. He’s just back from having a bomb fragment dug out of his thigh and still has a limp. Hugh’s the wet blanket in the squad, always there with a negative point of view whenever anyone says anything positive. What he said annoyed me, but the others simply shrugged it off with a laugh.
“Have you all forgotten what it was like back in March and April?” Hugh went on. “We had nothing to stop those German panzer tanks, bullets just bounced off them, and where was our air force? All I ever saw were a few relics that were blasted out of the sky as soon as they showed up. Those damned German and Italian bombers owned the sky, and the worst were those dive-bombers, coming straight down at us with those sirens wailing.” Hugh fell silent and absentmindedly rubbed his wounded leg.
“Listen to him,” Tiny said to us with a broad grin. “He thinks the dive-bombers were specifically after him.”
“Might as well be,” Hugh said bitterly, limping off. He threw a final comment over his shoulder. “They’ll get us all sooner or later.”
“Pay him no mind,” Tiny told us. “This time we’ve got tanks. They came over when the French border was open this summer. If no one messes up, we’ll have surprise on our side too. Franco’s concentrating on taking Valencia to the south, and he’s getting hung up on the defensive lines there. Our attack’ll come as a shock. Now, let’s get you lot started on some training, else all the surprise in the world won’t do us a bit of good.”
Tonight Bob and I have bedded down with the rest of the squad in a ruined stone farmhouse. There’s no roof, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t think it ever rains here, and it’s nice to look up and see the stars. I’m writing this by the light from the stub of a candle stuck on a tin plate. Bob’s asleep and I will be soon. I just wanted to put down a few thoughts first.
Life here is hard and we haven’t even started to fight yet, but I’m happy. Everything’s much simpler here than at home and, if I’m honest, which I promised I would be in these pages, that’s one of the main reasons why I left. Oh, I came to fight against the Fascists, and now that I’m here I’m fighting for the wonderful people I’ve met and to stop those black bombers flying over Barcelona, but I was running away as well. Running away from boredom and not knowing what I’m going to do with my life.
Well, enough of this maudlin dwelling on the past. I must get some rest. I will write more when I get the chance.
TEN
The bright sunlight stabbed my eyes as the train rushed out of the tunnel. I squinted and the Ebro came into focus, meandering around a narrow neck of land. Perched on the highest point of the peninsula stood the rounded walls of a ruined castle. Modern buildings spilled down the hillside almost to the water’s edge, and trucks bustled over a long bridge in front of us. The train slowed as it approached an open platform.
“Is this Flix?” I asked.
“Yes. This is where we start,” Laia said. She closed the journal after her turn to read and passed it over to me. Then she stood and retrieved her backpack from the overhead rack.
I got my backpack down and stuffed the journal safely into one of the outside pockets. “We still don’t know where we go from here. The last sections of Grandfather’s journal weren’t much help.”
“No,” Laia admitted, “but he’s not writing every day and he doesn’t fill the pages with a lot of trivia. I don’t think it will be long before we get to the battle. It started on July twenty-fifth. Let’s find a hostel and then walk up to the castle. That will give us good views in both directions along the river. If we read enough of his journal, that should tell us where to go tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I agreed as the train lurched to a stop. I was enjoying Laia being my guide and taking care of everything.
We found a small guesthouse only a few blocks from the station. The owner, a tiny, stooped, ancient woman dressed entirely in black, looked at us suspiciously when Laia asked if she had any rooms. She cheered up when we explained that we required separate rooms.
The rooms were small but cheap. My feet hung off the end of the bed and we shared an equally cramped bathroom down the hall. We had a brief argument over who should pay. I felt that I should use Grandfather’s money for everything on this trip. Laia insisted that she pay her share, so we compromised—I would pay for the rooms and she would buy our food.
As we left to climb to the castle, the landlady engaged us in conversation. She had obviously been waiting by the front door to tackle us at the first opportunity, and undoubtedly news of our visit would be all over town by the time we returned from our walk.
Laia told her that I was Canadian and that my grandfather had fought here during the war and we were here to research what had happened to him.
For half an hour, we were treated to a monologue about how hard life had been when she was a girl. Laia translated the main points as best she could. Apparently there had been little actual fighting in Flix itself, although the town had been bombed because the Republican headquarters had been in the railway tunnel we had passed through and there had been several pontoon b
ridges on the river nearby. As important to her was the fact that sugar had been impossible to buy and the bread was disgusting and very expensive.
As we tried to edge out the door, the woman turned to me. She grabbed my arm with a surprisingly strong grip and stared in my face. I was surprised to see a tear in the corner of her eye. “Gracias,” she said.
I mumbled, “You’re welcome,” without really knowing what I was being thanked for.
“Gracias. Gracias,” the woman repeated. Tears were now streaming freely down her wrinkled cheeks. To my utter embarrassment, the old woman let go of my arm, raised her clenched fist in the air and, in a voice quavering with age and emotion, launched into the song that I had first heard sung on the bus from the airport. “Viva la Quince Brigada, rumba la rumba la rumba la…”
I stood uncomfortably as she sang to me. When she was finished, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve, hugged me and scuttled back inside the house.
“Wow!” I said as we went off through the narrow streets. “What was that all about?”
“She was thanking you for the International Brigades,” Laia replied.
“But the war was over more than seventy years ago. I had nothing to do with it.”
“True, but as I told you, you carry your past with you. Your grandfather fought here with the International Brigades. She cannot thank him, so she thanks you. We are Spanish; we carry a very heavy past, and the war years and the hard times after it are still remembered by those who lived through them. Even today we are still finding mass graves and learning about the many thousands of babies that were stolen at birth and given to nuns for adoption by Fascist families. The past is very real for us.”
We walked the rest of the way up the hill to the castle in silence. I was deep in thought. Were the old woman’s tears part of the passion that Grandfather had talked about? Had the war meant as much to him as it obviously did to her? If so, why had he never talked about it? I was finding things out, but I was no closer to discovering the things that Grandfather seemed to want me to understand on this journey.
The rough stones of Flix Castle were warm in the afternoon sun. Laia was right; the views were spectacular in both directions. I tried to imagine two armies fighting and dying on the banks of the river, but it all seemed too tranquil—the farmers working their fields, seagulls swooping above the water and the occasional small fishing boat drifting with the sluggish current.
“I’m going to wander around the ruins,” Laia said. “Why don’t you read some more and see if your grandfather tells us where to go next.”
“Okay,” I said. Laia wandered off, and I settled myself as comfortably as possible against a smooth section of wall and opened the journal.
JULY 15
Two weeks since I added to these pages. If I’m going to keep my promise to write down what is happening I have to force myself to write despite the tiredness.
We are still in the ruined farmhouse, although there are rumors that we will be moving soon. Every day we train for twelve or fourteen hours. Some days we go to a nearby river and practice launching small boats and rowing them over, but mostly we simply charge over rough hills and practice digging ditches and building low walls to hide behind. There is some weapons practice, but since there is only one rifle for every two men, this is only occasional. Most excitingly, there has been some training in advancing with tanks. We don’t have actual tanks—they are being kept in a safe place until the attack—so we have to imagine that officers carrying huge red flags are mechanized vehicles.
Tiny is wonderful—generous with his time for us new recruits but stern when he has to be. Bob was goofing off during an exercise the other day, and Tiny tore a strip off him in front of everyone. “This is not a joke,” he said. “War is not a game. The things I am trying to teach you could save your life in a few days. More importantly, they could save the life of the man beside you, and we need every man alive and fighting if we are to win this battle.”
Bob, and the rest of us, were suitably chastised and have taken the work more seriously since then.
Hugh continues with his negative comments. Just this evening, we were talking about the tanks that are to support us. “A whole bunch of officers carrying red flags will certainly scare the Fascists,” Hugh observed.
“That’s just for training,” I said. “The real tanks will be here when we need them.”
Hugh turned his gaze on me. “How are we going to get across the Ebro?”
“In the boats we’ve been practicing in,” I said, confused by his apparently stupid question.
“How many men does each boat hold?” he asked.
“Eight. You know that.”
Hugh nodded. “And how many tanks?”
“What do you mean?” I said, annoyed at my own confusion. “That’s a dumb question. The boats are far too small to carry tanks.”
Hugh smiled and continued as if he was explaining something to a five-year-old child. “The Fascists are on one side of the river and we’re on the other. Assuming—and it’s a big assumption—that we manage to keep this attack secret and they don’t manage to shoot us all to hell in the river, we get across and establish a bridgehead. Say we’re lucky and we push forward for a couple of days. What do we do then?”
“We keep going,” I said.
“Supported by our wonderful tanks?”
“Of course.”
“As you so cleverly pointed out, a tank won’t fit in one of our boats, and I doubt very much if the Fascists have been kind enough to leave us an intact bridge over the river.”
“We’ve got engineers,” I said. “They’ll be following up to build bridges.”
“And the Fascist dive-bombers will be overhead cheering them on. You’re a good kid, but you’ve a lot to learn. The only victories we’ve ever won have been defensive. The Fascists have better planes, better artillery, better tanks, better rifles and more of everything. Every time we go into the open, we get cut to pieces. It’s happened over and over again and it’ll happen this time too, sooner or later.”
Hugh wrapped himself in his blanket and turned away from me. His negativity annoys me intensely, but part of me wonders if he might be right! I’m tired. I must get some sleep now before I dwell too much on this.
JULY 18
We were at rifle drill today when the bolt blew out of one of the older rifles we have. It tore a huge gash in the cheek of the man holding it, Horst, the German refugee who crossed the Pyrenees with Bob and me. I think it broke his cheekbone as well. He was extremely lucky not to lose an eye. He was evacuated to Barcelona, sitting in the back of an ambulance, his face covered in bloody bandages and his fist raised in defiant salute.
Hugh was standing beside me and commented on how lucky the man was to be missing the upcoming battle. I’m afraid I lost my temper. “If you don’t want to fight,” I said, “why don’t you just leave? You’re nothing but a coward.”
Hugh glared at me, and for a minute I thought he was about to hit me, but then he burst out laughing. “All sensible men are cowards,” he said, “but I’m not going anywhere. I came here to fight and to kill Fascists, and I’ve been doing that for the past year and a half. I’m not about to stop now. There’s hardly any of the original boys left. Me and Tiny’re about all there is from the twenty-five who trekked over the mountains on Christmas Eve 1936. If this war goes on much longer, I wouldn’t put money on me seeing another Christmas. If that’s what happens, so be it. I made a commitment to something and I’m not about to back down, but I’ll be damned if I’ll go cheerfully to my death, blind to all the stupidity and mistakes that have cost far too many good men their lives. Everyone lies, kid,” Hugh said, patting me on the shoulder. “Learn that, and maybe you’ll live a little longer.”
What a strange man Hugh is.
I wonder if Horst will be tended to by the nurse I met in Barcelona.
JULY 20
I have a hat. A beret actually. There is very little regulation-issue headgear, so e
veryone wears whatever they have or can scrounge. Had I known this, I would have picked something up in Barcelona.
Anyway, I have been talking to Marcel the Frenchman we traveled with. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, he assumes that because Bob and I are from Canada, we can speak fluent French. In reality, I think he simply wants to practice his English because he has a bunch of distant relatives in New Brunswick and wants to go there one day.
Marcel owns a beret that he claims was once the property of the writer Ernest Hemingway when he lived in Paris. I doubt that is true, although the beret looks old and worn enough, and Marcel does say that he is planning on writing a book about his experiences in Spain. He puts me to shame by writing voluminous notes in a large red notebook at every opportunity.
This morning, Marcel acquired a wide-brimmed canvas hat from a local farmer in exchange for a bottle of cheap brandy he had brought from Barcelona. The hat is in no better condition than the beret, but the brim helps keep the blistering sun off. I had admired Marcel’s beret, and since I didn’t have a hat of any sort, he offered it to me. It is only a loan and Marcel insisted that I promise to return it after the battle.
I pinned my badge on it and wore it proudly all day. Bob says I look like a Parisian gangster and Hugh commented that a steel helmet would be more use, but I am happy.
JULY 21
Just a quick scrawl to say we have our orders. We move out tonight for the Ebro. It’s not long now. I’m so excited I can barely hold this pen still. This is what I came for. I wish I’d written more before. I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to write.
JULY 22
