by Various Orca
Or do I? We will attack Gandesa tomorrow or the next day, with or without the tanks. Will it succeed or fail? Will I survive? What friends will I lose?
I still feel passionate about the cause I came to fight for, it’s just that there is a difference between the grand idea, which is admirable, and the way it must be achieved, which involves incalculable pain and suffering. Is it worth it? My first instinct is, yes, of course it is worth it. The Fascists must be defeated. But could I justify our battle to that mother if Bob had not heard her boy crying and he had died in that ruined house? I don’t know.
All of a sudden, things seem so bleak and complicated. I’m tired. I must try and get some sleep.
THIRTEEN
The whine of falling bombs, the crash of exploding shells, planes roaring overhead, tanks rumbling past and men shouting. The sensations were overwhelming. The only thing missing was the danger.
Laia and I were standing with our eyes closed in the introductory section of the Museum of 115 Days in Corbera, trying to imagine what it must have been like for Grandfather hearing these noises.
I had woken up stiff and sore that morning, and the scooter ride from La Fatarella to Corbera hadn’t improved things. But being here had completely re-energized me. Being in Corbera and hearing the sounds in the museum was as close as I could possibly get to living the things that Grandfather was talking about in his journal.
The old town on the hill that he had witnessed bombed to rubble had been preserved exactly as it was the day he was there. Rubble had been cleared from the open areas and weeds had taken over the streets and alleys, but the church, its walls pock-marked by shells and bullets, still stood, surrounded by the stark ruined stone walls of houses. Fire-blackened beams, possibly even the one that Tiny had lifted, poked up from collapsed walls. Oddly, in one house, a rusted, old-fashioned sewing machine sat alone on top of a pile of stones.
Laia and I had the place to ourselves, and we wandered round in silence, trying to imagine the horror and chaos the destroyed houses represented. I found myself staring into the corners of ruins, wondering if this was where the boy Bob saved had been trapped. I couldn’t get what Grandfather had said out of my mind. I was as convinced as he had been that the cause he had fought for was just. But was even a just cause worth all the suffering? Was it even worth the life of that one boy? I wondered if Grandfather had found the answer to his questions. I certainly hadn’t found the answers to mine.
Now we were in the museum in the new town at the bottom of the hill, named for the 115 days the Battle of the Ebro lasted, listening to the noises of that horror.
“It’s hard to imagine what your grandfather—what all the soldiers—went through,” Laia said as we moved among display cases of old uniforms, helmets, shells, bombs and guns. “Maria talked about the fighting in the streets of Barcelona. I understood what she was saying, but I never felt it the way I have among the ruined houses here or in the trenches outside La Fatarella. Even so, I can’t imagine what it was like in the middle of all the things he talks about. Why do people go to war?”
“With Grandfather,” I said slowly as I thought about each word, “and probably with Bob and the others, it was for something that they believed in. I think they were trying to make the world a better place.”
“Yes,” Laia said as we stared at a case full of evil-looking bombs and rockets, “but he had doubts about whether it was worth it.”
“I know, but we know things he didn’t. Maybe if Grandfather and the others had won in Spain, if Canada and the other democracies had got their act together and beaten the Fascists in 1936, there wouldn’t have been a Second World War—no Hiroshima, no Holocaust, millions of lives saved. I’ve always thought history was simple, but it’s not. It’s complicated.”
“It is,” Laia agreed. “I think we will go crazy if we try to work out answers. Nobody has in thousands of years of history, so I doubt we will. All we can do is follow your grandfather’s journal and see where it leads us.”
We examined the rest of the exhibits in silence. It was late afternoon by the time we finished, and I didn’t feel like going to find the address Aina had given me. Since neither of us had eaten lunch, we went in search of a meal instead, returned to the guesthouse we had signed into that morning and settled down with the journal. I had a growing feeling that Grandfather’s story was building to some kind of crisis, and I was eager to continue.
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 under-carriages, 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 b
eside 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?”
“I’ve wondered about that. I don’t know. It’s quite a coincidence. We know that Pablo Aranda lives here now, but Aina never said this was where he was rescued or even if it had happened in ’38. There must have been a lot of incidents like that in the war.”
“True,” Laia acknowledged, “but you never know. Besides, we’re here and what harm can it do?”
“Okay,” I agreed. At least it gave me an excuse to postpone reading the last few pages of the journal, which I was both looking forward to and dreading.
It only took us a few minutes to find Avinguda Catalunya, 21. It was a door covered in peeling red paint, in the wall beside a Farmacia. Laia rang the bell. For a long time nothing happened and we were about to leave, when I heard slow footsteps descending the stairs. The door creaked open to reveal an old man leaning on a cane.
“Pablo Aranda?” Laia asked.
The old man frowned but nodded slowly. Laia introduced us both, explained that we had been given his name an
d address by Aina and wished to talk about the war.
“No hablo de la guerra,” the old man grunted and began to close the door.
“My friend, Esteban, has come all the way from Canada to hear about the war,” Laia explained.
The old man stopped and stared at me. Despite his age, he stood straight and held his head high. The skin of his face was wrinkled and weather-beaten, but his eyes were sharp and peered hard from either side of a hawklike nose. “You are from Canada?” he asked, switching to heavily accented English.
“I am,” I said.
The man continued to stare at me. Before I could think of anything else to say, Laia spoke. “You were rescued by a Canadian during the war.”
Both the old man and I swiveled our heads and gazed at Laia as she continued. “We know a boy was rescued from a ruined house here by a Canadian during the battle in 1938. That was you, wasn’t it?”
The old man looked long at Laia before returning his stare to me. “Pasen.” Follow me. He made it sound like a military order. Then he turned and clumped slowly up the long flight of stairs. Laia caught my eye and winked broadly.
The room that Pablo Aranda led us into was sparsely furnished, but the walls were covered with black-and-white photographs. Some were obviously family shots, but others showed businessmen in suits and ties, and several were of soldiers. I didn’t have time to examine them in any detail. There was an empty coffee cup and a half-eaten pastry on the coffee table, but Aranda didn’t offer us anything, merely grunting and waving an arm toward a worn couch.
We sat and the old man settled into the armchair opposite and regarded us with a stony stare. “As a boy you were rescued by a Canadian?” Laia asked encouragingly.