Lost Cause (11 page)

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 everyone 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

In a barn, somewhere. We march at night and hide from the Fascist planes during the day. Thankfully, there are few planes about, otherwise they could not fail to notice that something is afoot. Men stream along every road and track, and trucks rumble back and forth incessantly. It's tiring, but all our spirits are high. I haven't seen any tanks yet, but then, I suppose they are being kept hidden until the attack.

JULY 23

Still in the barn. It's boring and hot. When will we move forward?

Christopher sang us a song this evening. Apparently it was written by a Brit at a place outside Madrid called Jarama. It's sung to the tune of “Red River Valley,” but the words disturbed me. They are not about glory and what we are fighting for but about a bunch of bored soldiers thinking they have been forgotten. I persuaded Christopher to tell me the words.

There's a valley in Spain called Jarama,

That's a place that we all know so well.

For 'tis there that we wasted our manhood,

And most of our old age as well.

From this valley they tell us we're leaving

But don't hasten to bid us adieu

For e'en though we make our departure

We'll be back in an hour or two.

Oh, we're proud of the British Battalion

And the marathon record it's made

Please do us this one little favor

And take this last word to Brigade:

“You will never be happy with strangers,

They would not understand you as we,

So remember the Jarama Valley

And the old men who wait patiently.”

“It's not about the war or fighting,” I pointed out.

“My young friend,” Christopher said in his upper-class voice, “soldier's songs rarely are. If you are in the business of killing and dying, you don't want to sing about it. Only those not in war make up songs like that. Soldiers sing about home, sweethearts and boredom.”

“It just doesn't seem very patriotic,” I insisted.

Christopher smiled at me. “How about this then? At Jarama, the British Battalion of six hundred men fought for three days over a place they called ‘Suicide Hill.' Four hundred of them didn't make it. Is that patriotic enough for you?”

JULY 24

It is eight o'clock and the sun has just sunk below the lip of the gully we are sheltering in. I will write what I can before the twilight fades. We are not allowed candles. In five hours we attack. The Mac-Paps are in the second wave and will cross the Ebro tomorrow morning. The Catalans will go ahead of us and clear the far bank of the Moorish troops dug in there. We cross between Flix and Asco and head south to Corbera and Gandesa. Tiny says it is about 12 miles to Gandesa. Units south of us will be closer, but we will have an easier time as we will follow a major valley most of the way. Other units will have to fight over a series of ridges. I hope he is right.

Tiny called us together this afternoon to let us know about the attack. He took us to the top of a nearby ridge, no easy task in the heat of the day. From the top, we could see the castle of Flix to the north and Asco to the south. Neither are more than 1 or 2 miles away, but they are in another world. The world across the river, where we must go tomorrow.

Hugh asked what the orders were. Tiny smiled and said that they were simple enough even for Hugh to understand: “Go as fast and as far as possible toward Gandesa.” I expected Hugh to retort with some comment about how were we supposed to win with orders like that, but he kept silent.

No one will sleep tonight. Those of us lucky enough to have rifles clean them obsessively. There is only one rifle for every two men, and Bob got one because he scored better than me on the range. He has promised to shoot the first Moor we see and give me his rifle.

This is it, what we all came for. Everyone sits silent with their own thoughts. No one jokes or fools about. Even Hugh has stopped complaining. Many of the men write letters on scraps of paper. I gave Bob a page from this journal and he wrote a letter to his parents. I have it in my pocket in case anything happens to him. This journal will be my letter. I have asked Bob to give it to the Spanish nurse in Barcelona.

Why did I do that? I barely know her. I suppose it's because this is such a different world, no one at home could understand. I'm not the same person I was only a few weeks ago when I crossed the mountains. In some ways I've grown up. I guess, if I survive the next few days, I'll grow up even more.

Tomorrow, each of us will carry a pack that must weigh at least 50 pounds. Until the bridges are built, we will have to survive on whatever we can carry with us, scrounge from the locals or steal from the enemy. In addition to my blanket, mess kit and so on, I have several extra clips of ammunition (which will be no use if I have an enemy rifle with a different caliber); a sack of biscuits; a couple of small loaves of bread; three rings of red, spicy, dry chorizo sausage; several oranges; and, oddly, a tin of English corned beef. We all received one of the last items, so I suppose a shipload must have got through the blockade. I wish it had been loaded with rifles.

Water will be a problem, so I have my canteen and two extra leather pouches called botas. They take a bit of practice to use as they are held away from the mouth and the water, or wine, is sprayed in. It was messy to begin with, but I am getting the hang of it.

There is no moon tonight, so it is getting too dark to write much more. I will carry the journal in my tunic pocket and scrawl a few words whenever I get a chance. On to Gandesa!

ELEVEN

Laia and I stood on the highest bit of wall we could scramble up. We could just make out the roofs of Asco, 5 kilometers south. Somewhere on the winding river between here and there, my grandfather, Bob, Tiny, Christopher, Marcel, Hugh, Carl and the other two Americans had crossed to go into battle. The temptation to read on was almost overwhelming, but I had resisted.

“Now we know where to go next,” Laia said.

“Down to Asco and then along the valley to Corbera and Gandesa.”

“Exactly. We shall follow in your grandfather's footsteps.”

“Are there buses?” I asked.

“Yes, but I have a better idea.”

“What?”

Laia's face broke into a mischievous smile. “You'll find out tomorrow.” She jumped down off the wall and headed back toward town. “Come on,” she shouted back at me, “I'll buy you a plate of snails.”

“Did you say snails?”

“You'll love them,” she said with a laugh. “They're a local delicacy.”

As I trotted after Laia, I thought of something else Grandfather had mentioned in his journal. “Do you think the nurse in Barcelona that he keeps thinking about was Maria?”

Laia stopped and turned to me. “I was wondering that too. Do you think so?”

“It's possible. I hope he mentions a name soon.”