From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -
I was eating my usual lunch of a sandwich and an apple on a bench in the town square when I was approached by a gawky boy of nearly eighteen. I recognized him as Hub's friend, Buck Mayhew. There was an eager light in his eyes of a sort that I had long learned to be wary of in teenage boys. Experience with my brothers and my nephews had taught me that it was an almost certain sign of fervent enthusiasm for a reckless and foolish scheme of some kind. It was also my experience that the more reckless and foolish the scheme the more certain the teenage boy was that it was the best possible thing for himself, his family, his community, and the world in general.
Of course, teenage boys being unpredictable, every now and then the fervent enthusiasm turns out to be justified. Unfortunately, this wasn't one of those times. Buck wanted a favor from me. "Mrs. Mainwaring, I . . . I want to go to Spain to fight the fascists like your husband and Will Lane. I know you know people who can get me there. Will you help me?"
His earnestness and awkwardness touched me deeply. "I can't. Even if it weren't illegal, you're too young to be going to war."
"I'm almost as old as Will Lane and I'm older than Ollie Jefferson was when he ran away to fight in the Great War."
"You're still in school."
"So was Mr. Jefferson when he joined up."
"Yes, and his mother and father were half crazy with worry when he disappeared without a word. They only learned where he was from a letter he sent them while on leave. It had no return address so they couldn't find his unit and have him discharged for being underage. We civilians are supposed to have it easier than soldiers, but if you'd seen the fear in their eyes every time someone mentioned their son you might not be so sure. Is that what you want to do to your parents?"
I could tell from the shocked and guilty look on his face that he hadn't thought of it that way. "No. I don't want to hurt them, but how do I ignore what the fascists are doing? I have to go."
I'm sure he meant the set of his jaw to be stubborn, but a slight trembling gave his inner doubt away. I spoke as gently as I could. "I admire you for wanting to do what's right, but one of the reasons my husband and his comrades are fighting is so that you and your generation don't have to go to war."
Buck opened his mouth to speak, but I stopped him by putting a finger to his lips. "Let me show you something."
I led him to the Great War Memorial. There I pointed to a name, Richard Brewster. If you hadn't known him, his name was just a few strikes of the chisel cutting grooves into the granite. I remembered a sensitive, awkward boy with a hopeless crush on merry, popular Brenda Layton. Brenda didn't have a cruel bone in her body. She liked him and was nice enough to him, but just couldn't see what was obvious to everyone else.
I read off two more names and told Buck about their enthusiasms, their resentments, their affections, and their foolishness. Buck was obviously stunned by the idea that the names on the monument belonged to people who were once kids like him trying to feel their way towards adulthood just like he was. He asked me why I was doing this.
I explained. "Those boys had their entire lives in front of them. They had love to find and dreams to chase. They lost their chance to do that. Van and his comrades would want you to stay here and have yours."
Buck was still troubled. "I see what you're saying, but what right do I have to do that? You said at the rally that we all have a duty to do everything we can to help those who are risking their lives to defeat fascism."
I put a hand on his shoulder. "There are things you can do for them without going to Spain. You can help me raise money for the Republic." At that moment, inspiration struck. "I can ask Van if there are any of his comrades who don't have anyone to send them mail. Maybe you and some of your friends can write to them."
I could see from the slightly dazed awareness dawning in his eyes that he was starting to consider the idea and hadn't yet found anything wrong with it. "Well . . . maybe . . ."
I squeezed his shoulder and smiled at him. "Will you promise to at least think about it?"
He looked at me for a moment and then smiled back. "All right. I'll see if any of my friends are interested."
I thanked him and watched him walk away lost in thought. Hopefully, he was already thinking better of going off to war. Just in case he wasn't, I had every intention of having a word with his parents about his dreams of being a war hero. I'll be honest. If an adult had come and asked me for help in joining the International Brigades, I might have been tempted to give it. However, I wasn't about to take a chance of sending a child to be maimed or killed.
Vanaver Mainwaring to Grace Mainwaring April 24, 1937
Today, we were visited in the trenches by a special correspondent for the Toronto Daily Star whose name you may recognize, Hugh Frampton. Unlike Hemingway on his earlier visit, he had the sense not to draw fire on us by insisting on shooting off a few rounds from a machine gun at the fascists.
You wouldn't want to hear the language Johnny Pike used when he learned about Hemingway's stunt. He gave new meaning to the phrase "cursing like a sailor." The only words he used that weren't profane were to the effect that he was glad it wasn't his machine gun crew that had to risk their lives. It would be humiliating to die in such a stupid way. I should hate myself for being so flip, but I couldn't resist saying that I had no idea there was a smart way to get yourself killed.
Johnny told me that I sounded like his mother. It was a shame that she wasn't here. She could probably nag the fascists into surrendering. Of course, he immediately told us not to get her wrong. She isn't so bad. She just worries. When he was in the merchant marine, she was terrified that his ship would sink or he'd be stranded in some foreign port. She was always trying to get him to find a job on land so she could be sure he was safe.
Rather than try to get us killed, Frampton asked us questions about life in the trenches and how it compared to his experiences in Flanders in the Great War. I probably wouldn't have found out that you knew him until you replied to this letter if he hadn't picked Will Lane to question. The second thing he asked him after his name was the name of his hometown. You should have seen his jaw drop when Will answered New Bedford.
"Do you know a Toppy Bailey or a Grace Bailey," he asked eagerly.
Will favored his questioner with a broad grin. "Sure, I know them both. Grace Bailey's last name is Mainwaring now." He gestured towards me. "You're standing right next to her husband."
Frampton looked from Will to me to Will and back again. "On the level?"
"Absolutely," I affirmed.
"When did that happen?"
I gave him the details. He was still floored by the revelation. "If you really are lucky enough to be married to a doll like that, what are you doing here?"
I told him the truth. "A day doesn't go by that I don't ask myself that question."
"So why are you here?"
I explained that nothing I had seen since coming to Spain had altered the conviction I had formed four years ago in Berlin that fascism is a mortal danger to civilization that must be destroyed. The fact that a capitalist such as myself is willing to make common cause with Communists to do it should give him an idea of just how mortal. Frampton sends you his best. He was glad to hear that you were at CRNB again, but sorry that you planned to forsake journalism for business once I return from Spain.
He thinks you have the courage and dedication to be a great war correspondent if you put your mind to it. He may be right. I can't believe that you never mentioned to me that you once covered a cave in at an abandoned mine in which one of the boys trapped was Henry. Still, I can't blame you if that experience wasn't something you wanted to look back on. You must have been terrified for your nephew.
Frampton was pleased to hear of Toppy's success as an author under the nom de plume Lucinda Fairchild. I gave him the copy of her new short story collection, The Silver Dream, that you sent me. He sends Toppy his best and says that that he looks forward to seeing how she practices what she once preached to him about writing female characters.
He also offers her and Archie his congratulations on their marriage. It was cruel of her to break his heart by marrying someone else. However, he wishes her all the happiness that he would have liked to have given her himself. He also asked me to tell Archie that he hopes he knows what a lucky man he is and if he makes Toppy unhappy, he'll come back to New Bedford and break his neck. He said it in a good-natured way, but there was a hint of pain underneath his smile. I don't know what happened between him and Toppy but it obviously meant a lot to him.
Next Post: The Schmitzes Come to New Bedford. Letters to and from Spain.
