"See the hardlookin' Italian kid over there? He's a dockworker, spent his days off readin' Marx and goin' to union meetings. A smart kid, if I ever saw one, just couldn't get a break, ya know? I'll tell you what – none of us would be here now if it wasn't for the fuckin' Depression. Now I'll read Marx and Lenin like any other good Socialist guy, but say, who wants to fight for Spanish democracy and socialism when they got a full belly and cold beer? Nobody. Who wants to fight for anything when they got that?" The Sergeant takes a deep breath, exhales, and spits. "Chew," he says with a grin, "The FALB sends us some every now and then. We usually don't get it though," he nods toward a bearded figure dressed in a Spanish Republican uniform, "Fuckin' Soviets think they got a right to everything. Now pardon my Polock, but those fucks ain't ever heard of private property."
The Sergeant is a grizzled veteran of the Spanish Civil War. His uniform is not a uniform, at least not in the traditional sense of the word. Like most members of the Abraham Lincoln Battalion of the XV International Brigade, he sports a dark beret with no insignia. His dirty, tattered jacket was not issued; rather it was a trophy, taken from a slain Spanish Moroccan colonial soldier. His fatigues are a light tan, a typically military color. A bandoleer of rifle ammunition is wrapped around his waste.
He cradles a Russian Mosin-Nagant rifle in his arms. The bolt-action rifle is old and scarred. Most of the scars were not new or recent, the rifle probably having been sent to Spain from an ancient arms depot somewhere in the Soviet Union. Before that, it had most certainly taken the lives a of a few Whites, if not even a few Germans or Austrians, maybe a couple Poles here or there.
"So, make yourself at home, kid. We welcome new ones like you, helps keep the Russkies off our back when they think they can do the fightin'. Believe you me, they can't even do the talkin.'"
--------
The Abraham Lincoln Battalion's defenses on the Ebro River certainly don't look like much.
The trenches are dug deep into the ground, and though I'm reminded of the old Great War newsreels and pictures, there's nothing to indicate the same kind of complexity and permanence of the trenches of that war. The ground in Spain is dry and hard, and it's not easy to dig in like the ground is in France.
A few Vickers machineguns and a couple Russian DPs are the most potent weapons, a few distributed to each company in the battalion. An anti-tank rifle, made in the Soviet Union, and a Swedish 37mm Bofors anti-tank gun make up the anti-armor contingent of my company, dubbed the 1st by the Sergeant.
The company is really no such thing. There are quite a few in the battalion, each headed by a commander elected by his peers or appointed by a Soviet advisor. The Sergeant was chosen by his men, and given the rank of Sergeant by a Spanish officer at the Battle of Jarama after saving the officer's life. The companies range from only a few men to fifty or so, the Sergeant's 1st Company being only around ten. I'm lucky to be in this company, a couple of my comrades tell me the day after I arrive. I'd probably be a Soviet prisoner by now, having arrived so late in the war.
"So late?"
"Yeah," one soldier tells me. His name is Anthony Caglio. "We already lost."
"How so?"
"You wanna see a map of the Republican part of Spain at the beginning of the war? Can't find one. Soviets burned 'em all a couple months ago."
--------
"What's your name again?" The Sergeant asks me one hot afternoon. I arrived in early June 1938; I figure it must be around the twentieth of June, now.
"James Patterson," I say.
"Jimmy, huh? I didn't ask you this when you first came in, but how the hell did you get here? French border was closed this last winter. Don't see too many new faces."
I had come through the French border. It was closed but quite a few of the French border police were sympathetic with the cause. And greedy, too. With a hundred francs in one fist, a CPUSA brochure in the other, and a friendly smile, I was over in a few seconds.
"Good to hear. You don't got a hard-on for the communists, do you?"
No, actually I didn't, and never had, never will. I had gone to college, attended enough philosophy classes and government classes and economics classes to see that communism didn't work. But I went to union meetings and I volunteered for all those Depression charities.
The Sergeant grins. "Fuckin' optimists." He gives me a hearty clap on the back. "Stay away from the Soviets, whatever you do. Can't trust 'em. They don't like us getting new guys, because then they have to indoctrinate you, and if they don't like you, say hello to a labor camp somewhere. They're good for guns and that's about it. So stick close to me, Jimmy, I got pals like other guys don't."
"Yes, sir," I reply.
"Comrade, if the Soviets are close." His grin turns into a mischievous smile.
"Yes, Comrade."
--------
In early July I find myself dirty, unshaven, and generally just unkempt. My skin is a dark shade of tan, my hair thick with dirt and grease. Bathing is nigh on impossible on the line of the Ebro River, and it doesn't look like we'll be going off it soon.
I am well equipped now. I was given a battered Spanish Army Mauser rifle and about ten rounds when I first arrived. A few patrols down into the river gulch, and an Italian Moschetto submachine gun and a box of ammunition have come my way. The boys in my company look out for each other well, and make sure they're better armed than practically anyone else.
--------
The summer nights are humid, and mosquitoes won't leave us alone. We are out in the country, and the stars above shine brightly. Cloud cover is rare and the moon is bright in the almost desert like terrain of southern Catalonia.
On one of these nights the 1st Company is given direct and strict orders by Captain Milton Wolff. The Sergeant is a good friend of the Captain's, who is well liked among at least the 1st. The Soviets don't seem to like him too much, but as long as they get to espouse Marxist-Leninist ideology, they don't interfere with a competent officer. And from all reports, Wolff is competent.
The Captain has received word from up the chain that a general offensive is coming soon, right across the Ebro River. The objective of the offensive is to drive south, cutting Nationalist forces off along the Valencia coast and reuniting the two Republican pockets. Everything is to be thrown into this offensive. Supplies from France are no longer coming through. Soviet aid is slackening as the position of the Republican government worsens, and meanwhile the Nationalists have more tanks and planes from Italy and Germany and trucks from the United States than ever.
The Captain, then, must take the proper pre-offensive actions. He needs to know where Nationalists trenches, bunkers, mines, anti-tank guns, and so on are located. With Fiat and Messerschmitt fighter planes ruling the sky, air reconnaissance is impossible. So, a night patrol across the fast-flowing Ebro and into the hills surrounding a town called Gandesa has to be attempted.
We see Gandesa practically every day. It's across the river, a typical Spanish town – white washed stucco buildings with brick red roofing, a Moorish-influenced church, an open-air market. Fields of wheat, well tended until recently, stretch out to the south, while a cluster of hills to north along the Ebro makes it a fine defensive position.
Gandesa is the headquarters of a Nationalist infantry division, supported by a German tank unit of Panzer 1s, small, fast German tanks armed with only two machineguns, but still enough to decimate an infantry platoon on its own. The infantry division occupies a cluster of hills around the town, well fortified, as well as fortifications that line likely crossing routes on the south side of the river.
A variety of units, the Sergeant tells us, have been given orders to send small detachments over the river on inflatable rafts supplied by the Soviets. Wolff, the Sergeant says, feels most comfortable sending the 1st Company over. Everyone in the unit but me is a combat veteran, and it is the most reliable American unit in the XV International Brigade.
In the afternoon, we eat like kings, pork in a sweet and spicy Spanish sauce and plentiful white bread. Compared to our usual light rations, this is filling. Anthony Caglio, the thin Italian kid who had taken to calling me his best "fella" in the past couple of weeks, says they always feed you well before you go do something dangerous. "Swear to God, they fill you up with food your own mother couldn't make, homemade by Spanish housewives and the Red Cross and everybody, gets you in good spirits."
A tall black kid who goes by Bucky gives a grin reminiscent of a shark, and says, "Fattenin' up the pigs before the slaughter."
Caglio cringes. "Aw, come on, don't gimme that!"
Bucky has been in Spain since the Battle of Jarama, one of the first Americans to arrive. A hardened veteran, his words are respected among the 1st.
I can only hope they aren't true.