Eduard grinned. “I’ve always been thinking, ‘I hate you’, but ‘bastards, bastards, bastards’ is better; and you say even mother thinks that?”
Eduard couldn’t sleep, and was awake and ready very early. Carlos and Ambros walked with him through the dark morning streets, crossing an eerily quiet Placa de Catalunya, and heading down to Franco Station. They had given Anna and Clara strict instructions to stay at the shop. “You’ll cry,” they told the ladies, “and that won’t help Eduard. He doesn’t want to start National Service with two women crying over him at the station.” Manel stayed to open the shop, aware that his friends were the best people to see him to the train.
Leaving the apartment, Eduard said, “I’ve never been out of Barcelona. Actually I’ve never been on a train. I hope I don’t look too innocent.”
“It’s the same for everyone,” said Ambros. “You’ll all be feeling the same, but you’ll all be hiding it. I don’t suppose many of the recruits have travelled any more than you. Let’s hope you get into one of the brass bands, and then you’ll really see Spain. I only saw Andalusia, and it will be good if you get to see more of the country.”
As they crossed towards the station under the watchful eyes of a couple of Civil Guards standing on the steps of the Post Office, they became aware of other young men walking towards the station, some with friends, some with their mothers. Some were boisterous and noisy, other subdued and apprehensive, all sharing the same nervousness of the occasion.
After an awkward farewell, with the three young men unable to decide whether to kiss, or hug, or just shake hands, Eduard walked forward to the barrier. The scene reminded him of pictures he’d seen of men going off to war. Nervous young men, trying hard to look casual and brave, and tearful relations waving goodbye, enveloped in an atmosphere of steam and noise from the engines.
Eduard followed the others towards a carriage at the front of the train, marked ‘army’, and climbed aboard. If Eduard had any expectation of a grand railway car, he was deflated to see the bare wooden benches, and lack of comfort of an army railway carriage. He clung to his small rucksack with his precious trumpet in it, and sat by a window. The door opened and closed a few more times, then there was a shrill shrieking of the steam whistle, and the train lurched out of the station.
Few of the young men were talking, all lost in the strangeness of the situation. “Where are we going?” asked one. The boys nearest shrugged, and no-one spoke.
The train settled into its rhythmic movement, and the boys watched the city give way to countryside, and the sun rise. After a while the train lurched to a stop, and the stench of the coal and oil from the engine filled the carriage. A young man close to Eduard stood and opened the window, which slid downwards with a loud bang, and leaned out.
The man reported to those near him, “They’ve disconnected the rest of the train. We’re being taken somewhere else.”
“Put you head back in,” came a shout outside, “and close the window.”
With a new engine connected, the train with its single carriage of nervous young men, grunted and lurched across miles of apparently empty and rather barren countryside. Many of the boys in the carriage dozed fitfully, jerking awake when there was a particularly uneven set of points, or a random loud blast on the steam whistle.
Eduard knew that his mother had made him some sandwiches for lunch, but for a while he was embarrassed to take them out of his bag. Without a watch, he was unable to tell the time, but it seemed they had been in the train for many hours, and he was very hungry. Surreptitiously, he fished in his bag and pulled out the package of crusty bread rolls. Another young man nearby grinned, as if given permission to similarly open his snack, and gradually most of them revealed packages of food lovingly prepared by their mothers. One boy had nothing, and the others all handed him halves of their sandwiches. The food broke the ice, and several of the boys started to talk; only to discover that no-one knew their destination.
It was late afternoon when the train finally stopped at a remote station, and a soldier banged loudly on the side of the carriage and told them to “Get yourselves down ‘ere, a bit quick!” Opening the window and twisting the handle to open the door, they tumbled out of the carriage, Eduard clutching his trumpet, and all headed for the wall along the platform, and simultaneous opened their flies and pissed long and hard.
“On to the trucks, let’s be having you!” came the next order, and they were herded out of the station and climbed awkwardly up into the back of the trucks which were waiting with engines roaring. The trucks rumbled away over a pot-holed road with the boys falling over one another in the back. They could see very little inside the dirty canvas covering of the truck, but glimpsed barren countryside before careering through tall gates and screeching to a halt.
They climbed out to find themselves in the middle of a wide parade ground, and as they stood trembling slightly, a platoon of men came marching smartly around the corner and across the ground.
“That’ll be us soon,” muttered a boy next to Eduard.
Eduard was unable to tell the rank of the different officers they saw that evening, but clearly they were all very senior to the recruits; there was no-one in the barracks as lowly as the new and very raw intake. They were taken into a large reception room where they were told to sit and wait. After a while, an officer arrived to tell them that they would first be given a medical, then issued with uniform, then given a meal. In order to divide them into small groups, names were called alphabetically. Eduard found himself in the second group, and told to follow instructions for ‘Hut Two’. They were ushered into the doctor’s room, where they were told to strip. They stood disconcerted and flustered as an orderly weighed each of them, and measured their height. The doctor’s inspection was rapid and cursory, asking each of them mysteriously to cough, and show him their tongue. As soon as they could, they put their clothes back on. Once they were all dressed, they were taken to another large room containing huge numbers of shelves with uniforms stacked high. One by one, they were given a pile of kit: little attention was paid to size or shape, and it was obvious to Eduard that their uniforms would be very ill-fitting.
The Hut Two group was taken to their quarters, and each allocated a bed, and a very small locker. One of the boys wearily sat down on his bed, gaining a very loud reaction, “Who told you to sit down, worm?” The boy jumped up. “Next time, it will be twenty press-ups for you!”
An older soldier, probably as ancient as twenty years old, seemed to be in charge of the boys in Hut Two, and in a slightly less terrifying way, told them to leave their uniforms on their beds, put their newly-allocated boots under the bed, and join him in the mess hall, bringing, of course, their mess tins.
The din in the mess hall was tremendous as the nervous boys lined up for the meal. The army cooks dispensing the sloppy stew enjoyed baiting the new recruits, with well-rehearsed repartee, and the boys shuffled past, receiving the stew, if that is what it was, and the ribald comments.
“Oh look, ’ere’s a carrot-head; ’ere’s a fat one; look at the spots on that; bet that one’s missing ’is mummy;” and so on. The boys straggled past, and stumbled to a table where they sat close together on a bench, and greedily spooned the sloppy stew, too hungry to object to the disgusting stuff.
Soon they were wearily shepherded back to their hut, where their regular soldier told them to get to bed quickly. Warning them that he slept in the bed at the end of the hut, and would be very angry indeed if he was woken by anyone in the night, he left them for a short time, expecting them to be in bed when he returned.
The boy, a skinny, pale and blond lad, next to Eduard, was in bed quickly, and without speaking a word, hid himself under the rough bedding. Eduard pushed his rucksack under the bed, and climbed shivering in. Gradually it became quiet, until someone let go a very loud fart. The giggling which followed was almost therapeutic, and enabled the boys to relax slightly. It became quiet again, and Eduard became aware that the bo
y in the next bed was quietly sobbing. Just as he was getting out of bed to talk to the boy, the soldier returned. He walked straight over to Eduard.
“Leave him alone, Bonet. He’ll have to sort himself out. There’s always a few miss their mummies. We all did once.” Eduard could smell the beer on the soldier’s breath. “Lights out now. Sleep tight boys. Tomorrow we’ll turn you into men.”
Eduard was fearful that he would not sleep, but to his surprise, the next thing he knew was a loud clanging as the soldier repeatedly struck a big metal triangle hanging at the end of the hut. “Stand by your beds!”
Dragging himself out of the warmth of the scratchy blankets, Eduard stood in only his underpants, shivering slightly in the watery early morning light. The other boys similarly struggled up and stood awkwardly, awaiting their instructions.
“OK, let’s see you in these lovely uniforms. Put your civilian clothes in the locker by your bed, and anything personal, and put your empty rucksack on the bed when you’re dressed.”
Eduard’s uniform was far too small for him; the boy who had cried the previous night had a uniform far too big, so they discretely swapped, aware that other boys were doing the same. Eventually they were all dressed, and endeavoured to squeeze their feet into their boots.
“I’m your corporal,” announced the regular soldier, “and I’ve been assigned to look after you boys. I remember what the first few days are like, but I can’t be soft. I’ve got only a week to knock you into shape, and if I don’t manage it, I’m for the high-jump. And since I don’t like high-jump very much, you’re going to get into shape whether you want to or not. It’s not a choice. We’ll get you to breakfast, then it’s back here, and the hard work starts.”
After an enormous slightly stale bread roll and a large mug of strong bitter coffee, they were back in the hut. The corporal stood them by their beds, and wandered from one to another. At Eduard’s bed, he stopped.
“That your rucksack, Bonet?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” replied Eduard.
“It should be empty, Private Bonet. It doesn’t look empty. I hope you’re not one of those mummy’s boys brought a woolly scarf, or even chococlate. Come on, boy, tip it out.”
Eduard tipped his trumpet onto the bed.
“What’s that, Bonet?”
“My trumpet, sir,” replied Eduard.
“Can you play that thing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you any good at it?”
“Yes, sir.”
The corporal grinned. “OK, let’s hear you play it.” Turning to the rest of the hut, anticipating Eduard’s humiliation, he said, “This will be good.”
Eduard put the trumpet to his lips, hesitated, then blew. He was ready for this moment, although it had come sooner than he expected. He’d practised the great Falangist anthem, ‘Face to the sun’, and he played it loudly and accurately. The grin faded from the corporal’s face, as his arm rose in the Fascist salute. All the others in the hut stood to attention and saluted. When Eduard stopped, he lowered the trumpet and there was a silence.
“Bugger me,” said the corporal, “you bloody can play, Bonet. That was bleeding amazing.” The rest of the recruits nodded in admiration.
Abruptly, the corporal remembered what he should be doing, stamped his feet suddenly and loudly, and gave his recruits a most surprising order. “Right boys, take off your boots, and stand by your bed.”
Looking at one another in bemusement, they did as they were told, and stood by their beds.
“Now boys, gather round and watch.”
The corporal had taken off one of his boots, and sat on a low stool. From under the stool he produced some rags and a tin of polish. It dawned on the recruits that they were to be given a lesson in boot polishing, but they were unprepared for what happened next. Picking up his boot, and gathering his saliva together, the corporal spat violently onto his boot. Dipping a rag into the tin of polish, he began to rub the polish into the gob of spit on his boot. Silently the boys watched, mesmerized by the performance. Gradually a mirror shine appeared on the corporal’s boot, and he looked up.
“That’s it, boys; that’s all there is too it. Now collect a rag and a tin of polish from the table, and go and sit on your bed. You have an hour, and if anyone fails to show me a perfect polished pair of boots at the end of the hour, he’ll be doing mine for a week.”
An hour later, the boys were told to present their boots for inspection, and they were all surprised to discover that they could indeed manage the required shine on their boots.
Apparently satisfied, the corporal told them to put their boots on, lace them carefully and efficiently, and be ready for their first attempt at square-bashing. They were taken out to the parade ground, and lined up.
“You’ve seen men marching many times, and you know what you’re expected to do. It starts now, and with concentration we’ll turn you into soldiers.” He paused, and then continued, “and there’s one more thing. Next week is Holy Week, and you will be taking part in an important church parade. We march to church from here, and we’ve got just one week to knock you into shape ready to take to the streets, and the eyes of the Spanish public. Now let’s find out who knows which is their left foot and which is their right.”
An hour later, the well-polished boots were filthy, their feet were bruised, and the boys were exhausted. Square-bashing didn’t come easily, and there was a great deal more skill in marching as a small platoon than they expected. They had crashed into one another, fallen over, and careered in the wrong direction. Their corporal had barked at them for the full hour without any sign of losing his voice, and they were as battered mentally as they were physically. Back in their hut, the corporal inspected their boots.
“Right boys, no-one gets anything to eat until his boots shine like they did this morning, or even better than this morning.” Eduard looked around the room. Mostly the lads were resigned to their fate, and wearily sat on their beds, took off their boots and began to clean them again. The skinny, pale boy in the next bed to Eduard, sat staring into space, making no attempt to take off his boots. Unashamedly, tears began to dribble down his face, and he made no effort to hide his distress from the others.
The corporal walked smartly over to the weeping boy, grabbed him by the arm, and half-marched, half-dragged him out of the hut. The rest continued to clean their boots in silence.
After a while, the corporal returned without the blond lad, and briskly told the rest to get their boots on “a bit quick”, and he marched them to the mess hall. There was no sign of their tearful companion.
The rest of the day passed in various activities, which to Eduard seemed mostly pointless: there was the repeated cleaning of the boots; the hour-long marching practise; a long session of physical jerks, which mainly consisted of holding a rifle over his head, lowering it, and generally waving it about; and an hour of taking the very same rifle to pieces, and putting it back together again. Of the blond boy, there was no sign.
At the end of the day, the exhausted boys could hardly eat any supper, almost falling asleep into the thin soup. They were relieved that they had nothing to do after supper, except return to the hut where they had some time to themselves. They fell into small groups, talking and some smoking. Someone produced a pack of cards and four of them started a sleepy card game. Eduardo played quietly an American tune he knew, and some of the men hummed along. After a while, the corporal returned smelling of beer, and told them to get into bed: “And tomorrow, you’ll learn to smarten up. In the morning I’ll expect crisply made beds, with your kit laid out correctly.” The bed next to Eduard remained empty.
They fell asleep quickly, and there were few sounds except some snoring. In the distance, they heard the night-time noises of the countryside, but they remained unaware of where they were.
In the night, Eduard awoke. There was a strange snuffling and giggling which had woken him. Peering around, he could see odd movements in the corporal’s bed. It w
as as if there were two people in the bed, but in the gloom of the hut, Eduard could not be sure. In the morning, the blond boy was sleeping peacefully in his bed. Eduard stared at him for a moment. Where had he been for most of the previous day? And when had he returned to his bed?
There was little change in the routine for the next few days. The boys became quicker at taking the rifles apart and putting them back together, and surprisingly rapidly they began to get a little stronger in the gymnastic sessions. Their marching improved, and the corporal seemed to think that they would be satisfactory at the Holy Week church parade. The blond boy seemed much happier, his boots were always highly polished, and he was no longer distressed when he couldn’t complete a task. When the gymnastics included vaulting over a wooden horse, most of the boys made some kind of effort to get over it, and Eduard surprised himself by being able to do it; the blood boy crashed against the horse, but when everyone laughed, he turned and grinned at them, and didn’t burst into tears.
Most nights Eduard was woken by the snuffling activities in the corporal’s bed, but thought no more of it, and was quickly able to get back to sleep and his dreams of his mother’s cooking.
The morning of the church parade dawned bright and cool; the sun rose into a clear blue sky, and the boys were amazed to find the large bread rolls for breakfast stuffed with strongly spiced sausage. For the first time, sugar was offered to them for the huge tin mugs of bitter coffee.
Back at the hut, they dressed as smartly as their ill-fitting uniforms allowed. The corporal paid particular attention to the blond boy, straightening his tie and smoothing his lapels. The platoon was soon lined up in front of their hut. Other platoons, with whom they had had little contact with during the week, were also lining up outside their huts. Each platoon had a corporal; and the corporals were clearly eyeing one another to see how successful they had been in training their charges.
The Phoenix of Montjuic Page 11