by John Wilson
“Good idea,” Bob said quietly.
“Come on then, you lazy lot,” Tiny said, heading for the door. “There’s work to be done.”
I was just passing the window when I saw the building across the street collapse with a deafening roar. It felt as if a huge hand picked me up and flung me against the wall on the other side of the room. “What happened?” I asked, getting unsteadily to my feet and checking that nothing was broken.
“Artillery shell,” Tiny explained.
“Ours or theirs?” Hugh asked.
Tiny shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is that we get moving before the next one comes over. You all right?” he asked me. I nodded. Tiny headed for the door. “At least the smoke will give us a bit of cover. Hugh and I’ll go up this side of the street. You two go up the other. Keep pace with us, keep your eyes open and hug the wall like you love it.”
Tiny looked up and down the street and slipped out, followed quickly by Hugh. “I guess we’d better go,” Bob said. “You up for it?”
“Yes,” I said as he, too, slipped out the door and sprinted across the street. I followed, avoiding the rubble from the collapsed house. We progressed slowly, carefully checking every door and window as we went. It was nerve-racking work and our progress was painfully slow. Rifle and machine-gun fire and the crump of grenades echoed from the streets round about us, becoming heavier as we advanced.
We had checked three houses when a group of figures burst out of a side alley. Instinctively, we raised our weapons, but they were brigaders. An officer approached Tiny. “They’re counterattacking on both sides,” he explained. “There’s not enough of us to hold. We’re withdrawing.”
“Withdrawing?” Tiny said, looking down the street in front of us. “There’s no resistance here. We can keep going.”
“If we do that, we’ll be cut off. Not enough of us made it across the open, and some of my men are running out of ammunition already. We’ve no grenades.”
Tiny hesitated, gave one last glance down the empty street leading into town, and turned back. He looked across at Bob and me and opened his mouth. Then he hesitated. A puzzled frown crossed his face and he slowly sank to his knees. A bullet chipped the wall behind him and whined off into the air.
“Sniper!” the officer yelled, pointing up the street. Bob and I followed the line of his arm. “In that church bell tower.”
I couldn’t see anything, but I loosed off a couple of shots at the tower. So did Bob. Already, Hugh had his hands under Tiny’s arms and was dragging him back down the street. Firing as we went to keep the sniper’s head down, we retreated to the first house we had cleared.
Breathing heavily, Hugh leaned Tiny against a wall. The big man was breathing irregularly through his mouth and looked frighteningly pale. “I can’t feel my legs,” he said weakly.
“They’re coming down the street,” a man at the window shouted. I peered out the doorway. Figures in red hats were working slowly down either side of the street. The soldier in the window and I got off a couple of shots. One figure crumpled to the ground, and the others disappeared into doorways. Bullets began to chip the walls around us.
“We can’t stay here,” the officer shouted. Hugh began to lift Tiny.
“Leave him.”
“No way,” Hugh replied. “You know what the Fascists do to prisoners.”
“He’s too big. He’ll slow us down. You can’t carry him.”
“Yes, we can,” Bob said, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. He helped Hugh lift Tiny.
“Suit yourselves,” the officer said. “Come on.” He and his men disappeared onto the street, firing as they went.
Bob and Hugh had Tiny between them. “Keep the Fascist heads down,” Hugh told me as they headed for the door.
That’s how we progressed, changing places frequently, but always two of us hauling Tiny and one firing back. Tiny grunted at first at the manhandling but soon just gritted his teeth in silence.
The open fields were filled with men stumbling back from the town. At first the fire on our backs from the town wasn’t heavy as the Fascists advanced carefully, checking the buildings as they went, but it increased as we stumbled along.
Bob and I were hauling Tiny when the artillery opened up and shells began exploding around us. Suddenly I was carrying Tiny on my own. His weight was too much and we collapsed in a heap, Tiny grunting with the pain.
Bob was crouched nearby, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms crossed on his chest, his fists balled tightly. I crawled over. “Where are you hit?” I asked. Bob simply whimpered. I checked him over as best I could but could find nothing. I shook him. “Bob, what happened?”
He looked over at me, his eyes wide and snot running from his nose. “I can’t go on,” he whimpered.
“Of course you can,” I said, trying to haul him to his feet.
He resisted. “I can’t,” he repeated. “It’s too much. Don’t make me.”
Hugh appeared beside us. “What’s happening? Is he hit?”
“I don’t think so. He just won’t move.”
“Then leave him. We’ve got to get Tiny back.”
“No,” I said. “You go on if you want, but I’m not leaving Bob.”
I turned to my friend. “It’s okay, Bob, but it’s not just you and me. It’s Tiny—he’s badly hurt, and I can’t get him back on my own. I need you to help me.”
Bob looked at me and blinked rapidly. “Tiny?” he said.
“Yes, Tiny. He’s wounded and you have to help me. Will you?”
Slowly, Bob got to his feet. I kept talking to keep him going. “We’re almost at the trees. We can rest there.” Hugh and I lifted Tiny and draped an arm across Bob’s shoulder. I took the other side. “Okay, Bob?” I asked, shouting above the explosions and whining bullets.
“Okay,” Bob shouted back. We set off at a slow stagger. It was hard going, but we kept on. Then the dive-bombers returned, announced by the terrifying whine as they plunged toward us.
I glanced back over my shoulder to see Hugh firing his rifle in the air. The bomb must have been a direct hit, because Hugh simply disappeared. One moment he was there, firing wildly at the planes, the next there was a flash, some smoke, and he was gone. I guess he was right—it was personal and one of the bombs was aimed at him.
Bob and I struggled on and were almost at the olive grove when the shell exploded beside us. A piece of shrapnel caught Bob in the shoulder and something, a rock, I think, or maybe just a hard clod of earth, hit me a stunning blow in the side, knocking all the air out of me. It took me a long time to get my breath back and my ribs hurt dreadfully, but there was no blood, so I figured I was probably all right. I worked my way to Bob, who was sitting, cradling his arm with blood soaking out of his wound. I helped him to his feet, and we stumbled into the trees.
The first men we met tried to help us, but I told them to go back and get Tiny. I sat Bob by a tree and patched up his wound as best I could. Then I collapsed beside him.
There weren’t many men left in the fields, not live ones anyway. Here and there, figures staggered along and wounded tried to crawl toward us between the inert bodies. The shelling had stopped, but I could see figures among the houses, picking off the wounded in the open with their rifles.
The two men I had sent for Tiny returned alone. “He’s just out there,” I said, pointing. “He’s a big man. You can’t miss him.”
One of the men shook his head. “We found him, all right,” he said, “but he’s stone dead. Hole in his back I could put my fist in.”
“You’re wrong,” I shouted. “Go back and get him.”
The men simply shook their heads and wandered off. I tried to stand, but the pain in my chest made me gasp and collapse to the ground. Worse than that was the weight of all my dead friends, so heavy that it seemed it was pushing me down into the earth itself. Bob and I sat and wept openly beneath the olive tree.
Eventually, we rose and found our way to this aid station.
I must try and sleep now. I cannot write more.
FIFTEEN
I turned the page in the journal, but the next one was blank. Laia was leaning against me, her head on my shoulder, crying softly. I put my arm around her shoulder and hugged her.
“All of them,” she said softly. “It’s tragic.”
I stared down the overgrown street of ruins. It was tragic. More so than I could imagine. How could so much enthusiasm and hope have turned into so much disaster? How did my grandfather keep going through all of the horror happening around him? I’d complained about the uncomfortable scooter and the heat when I’d been traveling in absolute safety with a beautiful girl by my side. Could I have done what he did?
So the mystery was solved. The hole in Grandfather’s young life, the passion that he still remembered as an old man, were explained. I had learned what I had come for, but that was nothing. I had learned so much more—about war, about how complicated life can be.
The phone in my pocket vibrated, but I ignored it. It was probably just DJ telling me he’d made it to the top of his mountain and how wonderful it all was. What did he know about struggles like the one Grandfather had been through?
Almost immediately, I felt guilty. It wasn’t DJ’s fault he’d been given a mountain to climb and just because I’d read Grandfather’s journal and he hadn’t didn’t make me special in any way. Gently, so as not to disturb Laia, I reached into my pocket and extracted my phone. It was a text from DJ, but not what I expected.
It’s over. I couldn’t do it. Things happened.
Over! Couldn’t do it! What had happened? Had dive-bombers attacked him on the mountain? Suddenly I was angry. “You can’t give up,” I said out loud, lifting my arm from around Laia. She sat up and looked at my phone.
W@ u mean couldn’t do it? Break your neck? I texted back.
“What’s happening?” Laia asked.
“It’s my twin brother, DJ. He’s giving up.”
“Giving up what? I didn’t know you had a twin brother.”
“I do,” I said. My phone vibrated, and DJ’s reply appeared.
Three of the people in our party got acute mountain sickness and had to be taken down the mountain. All the guides and porters except one had to go down.
How close r u 2 top? I typed.
“Where is he?” Laia asked.
“Halfway up Kilimanjaro in Tanzania,” I replied. “I have a twin brother and five cousins. Grandfather gave us all tasks in his will.”
Another text came in.
Thirteen hundred meters. Six hours. I can see it, but I was told by the guide not to go, that I couldn’t go up.
I stared at the screen. This was so not DJ. He’d always been the one that did things, made things happen. As far as I knew, he’d never failed at anything in his life. Angrily, I texted back, If u can c it, u can do it. Just go to the top.
“He can’t do it?” Laia said.
“Yes, he can,” I said. “He always has. He’s the strong one.” I felt anger rising again.
I began texting. I forgot the protocol and the abbreviations, I just typed like I was talking to him. It took me three texts to send it all.
Just because someone says you can’t do something doesn’t mean you can’t. Grandfather was exhausted and terrified. His friends were being killed all around him, but he kept going because he believed in something. It was a long time ago and that something failed, but he kept going as long as he could.
I hesitated, wondering what to say next. Had I gone too far? My phone pinged.
I’m tired. I’m sick. I don’t think I can do it. I’m so sorry.
My anger surged up once more. What did he mean he couldn’t do it? This was DJ talking. He was my big brother. My fingers flew over the keypad.
Don’t be sorry. Go through the tired. Go through the pain. Believe you can do it. Try and you can’t fail. You’re as good as Grandfather. I believe in you. KUTGW bro. Grandfather’s waiting at the top. KIT.
As soon as I sent the text, I felt embarrassed. It was so emotional. What would DJ think? More importantly, what would Laia think? I glanced at her. She was staring at the blank screen. She must think I’m such a nerd.
The screen lit up.
I’ll try, for Grandpa and for you, bro. T4BU.
I smiled. I never thought he knew stuff like the shortcut for Thanks for being you.
“That was nice.” Laia was looking at me.
“Really? You didn’t think it was sappy?”
“Of course not. You persuaded your brother not to give up, just like your grandfather persuaded Bob to keep going. I’m proud of you. And I’m very glad your grandfather gave you this task.” Laia leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.
I felt my face burning and fumbled to put my phone away. The journal slipped out of my hand and fell open at the last page. It was covered with my grandfather’s small, neat handwriting.
“He wrote something else,” I said. I picked up the book and thumbed through the last few pages. Several were blank after the battle, but Grandfather had written something on the last page. Laia and I huddled together over the notebook, enthralled by the final entry.
SEPTEMBER 8
It’s been six weeks since I last scrawled my thoughts in these pages. After the battle, I was certain I would never write again. What was already there was so painful, how could I ever say anything worthwhile? But today I am in such a turmoil of conflicting emotions that I have to write something down.
After Gandesa, I thought the change that began when I crossed the mountains into Spain was complete, that the friends I had made and lost, the horrors I had seen, the tragedy I had been a part of, had molded me into a new person and that is who I would be. The last six weeks have proved simply that we can never be certain of anything.
Bob and I were shuffled back to Barcelona. It took five days, most of which we spent either lying ignored on the cold ground or rattling painfully somewhere in a truck or railway carriage surrounded by the stench and screams of those much worse off than ourselves.
A doctor in Tarragona removed the shrapnel from Bob’s shoulder and painfully prodded my ribs before saying that there was nothing he could do. I have tried not to move my ribs, but it is hard not to breathe. However, the pain has pretty much gone and I think they have healed well. Not having a broken bone, Bob’s wound healed much faster.
As we healed, we both assumed that we would return to the war eventually, but that is not to be. The battle has not gone well. The fighting continues, but we never took Gandesa and we have been steadily forced back. The Fascists have too many tanks, planes, guns and soldiers.
Rumors are flying around that the International Brigades are to be sent home. I think the rumors are true and that is why Bob and I are to be repatriated tomorrow. That is the cause of my conflicting emotions. I want to go home—I’ve had more than enough of war—but I also want to stay here. I have fallen in love.
Maria, the nurse I could not get out of my mind, was at the hospital in Barcelona when I returned and was as happy to see me as I was her. Since then we have barely been out of each other’s company. Her family has given me a bed in their house, and I have helped at the hospital, as much as my ribs allowed.
In our spare moments between work and sheltering from the continuing bombing raids, we have walked the streets of this wonderful, damaged city. We have strolled through the parks and gardens and climbed the hill of Montjuïc. Maria has shown me the ancient cathedral and the tomb of Barcelona’s favorite saint, Eulalia. We have walked the narrow dark alleys of the Gothic Quarter, eaten at whatever tiny places we have come upon and talked with the people struggling to survive and afraid of the coming Fascist darkness. If I live to be one hundred, I don’t think I shall ever find another place so beautiful, friendly and alive—or so doomed.
My ribs healed on their own, but that was only my body. My mind as I left Gandesa was a mess. My nights were plagued by nightmares in which Tiny, Hugh and the others came back to haunt
me, and my days were filled with shadowy thoughts of hopelessness and death. It felt as if I could never climb back out from that black pit.
Maria, with her love and patience, has brought me back. She has shown me that, despite everything, there is still good in the world. It is a lesson I will never forget, and I shall cherish every moment of happiness that I am given. But why must the cost of that lesson be so unbearably high?
If I had one wish, it would be to stay here forever with Maria or to take her somewhere else that is safe. Her wish is the same, but it is not possible. The war is lost and the Fascists will march down the Ramblas soon. Any foreigners who fought for the Republic will not last long after that. I can go because I am Canadian. Maria must stay because she is Spanish and the border is closed.
It is so unfair. So cruel to find love and lose it.
But I shall come back. I will leave my suitcase with all the pitiful possessions I have collected here, including this book. I will give them to Maria and pray that one day I will be able to return and collect them. Until then, these twelve weeks, this part of my life, the most important part until now and, I suspect, the most important part ever, will remain Maria’s and my secret.
SIXTEEN
That was it, all there was. I thumbed through every other page in the journal, but they were blank.
“So your grandfather and my great-grandmother fell in love,” Laia said quietly. “I suspected as much, but to see him declare his love on the page is different. Why did he never come back?”
“He did, once. His plane crashed in France during the war and he was sent through Spain to escape, but he was on the run. After the war, as long as Franco was alive and dictator of Spain, he couldn’t return, but after that…? It was a different world after the Second World War. He got married, had kids.”
“I wonder if he still loved Maria?”