Lost Cause (15 page)

JULY 27, NOON

A short break after a hard morning's march to these low hills overlooking Gandesa and then two hours scraping a shallow trench in this rocky ground. We have piled a line of rocks on the lip of our ditch (it's not really deep enough to call it a trench), and that gives us a bit more cover, but Tiny still has to crawl everywhere on his hands and knees. Not that anyone is firing at us. There is a steady stream of planes overhead, but they are high and don't pay us any mind. The odd artillery shell explodes on the hill, but the rounds are not aimed and do little damage. Besides, we shall not be here long. Word is, the tanks have got across the river and will be here tomorrow morning to support our attack on Gandesa.

I can see the edge of town from here. Our artillery in the hills is firing, and puffs of gray smoke and dust show where our shells land. It looks harmless from this distance, but I hope our barrage is doing damage.

The plain in front of Gandesa is wide and flat, ideal for tanks, Hugh says. I hope so.

The plan is that the XVth Brigade will move into the valley under cover of darkness and attack at dawn, sweeping through the streets before the defenders have time to organize. Other troops will attack other parts of the city. With the tanks, and hopefully planes, we will succeed. It's the waiting that's hard.

JULY 27, AFTERNOON

One of the Americans is dead and another wounded. We were resting in whatever shade we could find when Hugh yelled a warning. “Dive-bombers!”

He dove past me into our ditch, and I followed without really knowing what was happening. Others were running here and there, but the three Americans simply stood up, sheltered their eyes and stared at the sky. I looked up as well. At first it looked like the view we had seen all day—flights of aircraft heading over toward the river—but then I noticed that some of the aircraft were different. They were smaller than the Heinkels and Savoias, were flying lower and had odd bent wings.

There were five of them, and they were almost directly overhead when the lead plane peeled off and plummeted straight down. The others followed. Hugh had been right earlier when he said it seemed as if they were aiming straight for you. They looked like evil, black birds with their bent wings and fixed undercarriages, and they made an unearthly wailing sound.

There was something hideously fascinating about them. As I watched the lead plane fall toward me, I began to wonder if this was some kind of suicide attack, but at the last minute the plane pulled out of its dive. A tiny black object wobbled down from the plane's belly. I knew what that was, so I rolled onto my side, drew my knees up to my chest and covered the back of my head with my arms.

I could see the Americans, as enthralled by the planes as I was but standing in the open beside an ancient olive tree. I wanted to yell at them to lie down, but the plane's siren drowned everything.

The bomb landed no more than 7 feet away from the men. The closest man was picked up like a rag doll and flung into the branches of the olive tree; the second man was thrown violently down and to one side; and the third, Carl the taxi driver, remained standing, protected from the blast by the tree trunk.

It was all over in seconds. Other bombs exploded along the hillside, and after the noise died away, I heard screams coming from my left. I was first on my feet, heading for the wounded men, not thinking that the planes might come back for a second run.

The man in the tree was bent over at an impossible angle and obviously dead. His companion on the ground didn't look too bad but was groaning pitifully and holding his stomach. Carl was standing, staring blankly, as I knelt beside the wounded man. I yelled at Carl to come and help. He didn't move. Then Tiny was there taking charge. He lifted the man's hands off his stomach to reveal a rapidly spreading red stain. “Stomach wound,” he said. “Don't touch him,” he added, looking at me. “Hugh, get a stretcher up here.”

Hugh disappeared through the trees, and Tiny stood and went over to Carl. “You'll be all right,” I said to the man on the ground. He struggled to focus on me. His teeth were chattering. “I'm cold,” he said. I went and got a blanket and draped it over him. He didn't seem to notice.

Hugh arrived back with a couple of Spaniards and a stretcher. As gently as possible, we loaded the man onto it, and they headed off toward the aid station. Tiny came back over and Hugh looked up at him and shook his head. Tiny nodded. “Get that body out of the tree,” he ordered. I stood up, but Marcel and Christopher were already working on it. I looked over at Carl. He was in exactly the same position as before, a vacant stare on his face.

“Are you okay?” I asked, moving over beside him. There was no response. I tugged his arm and he slowly turned his head, swallowed and blinked rapidly a few times. He looked around and his brow furrowed in puzzlement. “What happened?” he asked.

“We were bombed,” I said. He nodded as if that explained everything.

Tiny came over and put a massive arm around Carl's shoulder. “It's shock,” he said to me. “He'll be okay with a bit of rest.”

Tiny led Carl away, and I went back to our ditch, wondering where Carl was going to get some rest in the middle of a battle. We had lost three of our small group already, four if Carl didn't recover. That only left Tiny, Hugh, Marcel, Christopher, me and Bob.

Bob! Where was he? I stood up and was relieved to see him coming through the trees with an armful of sticks. “I thought a fire might be a good idea,” he said as he reached me and dropped his bundle. “Make some tea and heat up some sausage stew. We can't go into battle on an empty stomach.”

“Don't you know what happened?”

“I know there was an air raid. I heard the explosions. Stukas, some fellow along the hill told me. Why?”

“One of the bombs landed here, right beside the Americans. One was killed, another badly wounded. Carl wasn't hurt, but he's in shock.”

Bob's good mood evaporated. “Damn,” he said. “There goes our good luck. One dead and two wounded before we even go into battle.”

We lapsed into silence and sat with our own thoughts. I couldn't get rid of the images of Carl's empty eyes and the American with a piece of shrapnel in his stomach, shivering and complaining of the cold. Is that the sort of thing that's waiting for all of us?

JULY 27, EVENING

I cannot live through many more afternoons like this—first the bombing and now I think I have killed a man.

I was crouched in the pitiful trench I scooped out this morning when I saw a movement on the rocky hillside across the valley. It was a man—a Fascist soldier—in a much neater uniform than the rags many of us wear. I watched him for some time as he scrambled from rock to rock on the otherwise bare hill.

I had no idea why he was crossing the exposed hillside. As far as I could see, there were no Fascist trenches over there. Perhaps he was lost, separated from his unit as they retreated to Gandesa yesterday. He seemed to be alone. I followed his progress along the barrel of my rifle, wondering what to do. He was heading for a narrow ravine. If he made it, he would be hidden and able to work his way down the valley into Gandesa. When we attack the town tomorrow, it might be him aiming a rifle at me.

I made my decision and guessed where he would appear next. When he broke from cover, I remembered what Tiny had taught me, and I aimed a couple of feet ahead of his running form and squeezed the trigger. The man stumbled, dropped his rifle and fell behind a large rock. I waited for an age, but he didn't try to retrieve his rifle or continue his journey on the other side of his shelter.

Did I kill him or was he playing safe after hearing my bullet zing by? I don't know, but it is the first time I have deliberately tried to kill someone I can clearly see, and it feels odd. He was not an invisible bomber pilot or unseen artillery man. He was a human being.

Bob said I did right. He said we came here to do just that, kill the men who are trying to destroy everything good in Spain. He said everything we do here is a blow against Adrian Arcand's Fascists marching through the streets of Montreal, smashing shop windows and beating up any Jews they find. I know Bob's right. I also know the man on the hillside would have killed me if he had a chance, but I also know what a bullet can do to flesh and bone, and I can't help wondering whether the man I might have shot had a mother who will mourn him or children who will never see their father again.

I helped save a life yesterday, and today I might have taken one. None of this is what I wanted when I came here. But what did I expect? I was a stupid kid with no idea. What did I think, that wars are fought without blood and death, like a story in the Boy's Own Annual? Did I really imagine that men don't scream when a piece of a bomb tears a hole in them? I don't know if I will be able to force myself to go down into Gandesa tomorrow.

I must try and put these thoughts from my mind. I need to sleep. But I won't; I can hear the drone of the bombers approaching again.

FOURTEEN

I woke up the next morning feeling dragged out. It had been a restless night's sleep, filled with dreams of fighting and death. Over a breakfast coffee and pastry, Laia admitted that she had not slept well either.

“There is not much of the journal left, and I don't think it is going to be happy,” she said, mirroring my sense of foreboding.

“Maybe it won't be too bad,” I said without much conviction. “Perhaps the tanks will help and they will capture the town.”

Laia gave me a long look.

“They fail, don't they?”

Laia nodded. “Gandesa was never captured.”

We sat in silence. It felt very strange. I had been living the journal as I read it. I was with Grandfather as he struggled along, watching his friends being killed. I felt his shock at shooting the man on the hillside. It was all so real, and it was going to go horribly wrong. I wanted to shout a warning to him—and Bob, Tiny, Hugh, Marcel, Christopher and Carl.

Don't do it.

It won't work.

Don't go on the attack tomorrow
.

But of course that was crazy. The things I was reading about had happened more than seventy years ago. I couldn't change the outcome.

“Let's go to the address that Aina gave you on the bus,” Laia suggested. “What was the name?”

I retrieved the scrap of paper from my pocket. “Pablo Aranda, but he doesn't have anything to do with Grandfather's story.”

“Probably not, but Aina told you he was rescued by an International Brigader. What if this Pablo is the boy who Bob and Tiny rescued from the ruined house? This is a small town. How many boys were rescued from ruined houses?”