The Soldier Returns: Spanish Letters

ST. CIRQ-LA-POPIE, LOT February 13, 1937
DEAREST FAMILY: ——
I have n’t written for two weeks because I have n’t felt cheerful enough, and nothing is worse than a gloomy letter. Of course there is only one cause for my gloom. Pierre has gone to Spain. Had he gone a month ago, I should n’t have been so pessimistic, but this week has been disastrous for us ‘anti-Fascists.’ (I can’t say ‘Republicans,’ because it makes me feel allied with the G. O. P.!)
When Pierre last heard from his father, he told us that Ricardo was in Málaga. This week, after five days of violent and unremitting bombardment of Málaga by air and sea, the city fell. The details were horrible. The 16,000 Italian soldiers who had landed a few days before the offensive began entered the city singing ‘Giovinezza.’ They dragged the men out of the houses and herded them in groups of fifty, which they turned over to the Arab soldiers to mutilate with their knives, before the machine guns put a merciful end to their suffering. The officers were shot at once.
With coal so scarce that there is only one train a day to the frontier of France, letters taking at least eight days to come from Barcelona, and with strict censorship, Pierre won’t be able to give me much information about what he is doing and what life is like there. ‘And when he’s killed, how shall we know it?’ Martha cried. Anyway, before he left, Pierre and I both made out our wills, with the Sabates as witnesses, and that ought to make Pierre live to be a hundred. If he had only had his life insured, I know he’d live another century. And won’t he appreciate home cooking after semi-starvation!
PORT BOU, SPAIN
April 13, 1937
Yesterday the postman brought me a letter — from Pierre!
Ripping it open excitedly, I read, then rushed wildly upstairs, threw myself broken-heartedly upon my bed, and sobbed into my pillow. For that letter said that Pierre’s leave would begin to-morrow, and was for only eight days instead of fifteen; so I’d not see him unless I rushed immediately to Barcelona, to have just four days with him. I felt that I could n’t live another minute without him!
Throwing my clothes into my smallest suitcase, and adding two quartiers d’oic, two packages of coffee, one kilo of sugar, and apples and oranges, I gulped down an omelette and a glass of milk — and away I dashed to the station.
At Port Bou, there was trouble over my papers, and I had to produce a letter from Pierre, telling of his leave of absence, which proved him a miliciano. (You will all be proud to know he has already ‘risen from the ranks,’ and is now a lieutenant in the Loyalist Army.) My baggage was then looked at gently; the amount of money I had was written on my passport; I passed through the hands of several other bureaux, and then came out into the street, where my first act was to send a telegram to Pierre. As extra words were only ten centimes each, I added ‘Love,’ which I had n’t done, because of the expense, in my telegram sent from St. Cirq!
With many hours to wait for the train to Barcelona, and feeling in an extravagant mood, I had my hair waved — for five cents. I took lunch in the same restaurant in which I’d had breakfast. Then I watched the pretty girls of Port Bou go switching by. I said to myself: ‘They are prettier than I; but my hips are better!’ Before the trip was ended, I realized why Spanish girls have well-padded hips: to enable them to ride in comfort in Spanish third-class trains! There never was anything as paralyzing as those hardwood benches. When we reached Barcelona at 9 P.M. I was so worn-out I thought I’d be too tired even to cry if I found that Pierre had already gone back to the front, or had crossed me, en route — he going to France, I to Spain!
As we stamped out of the train on to the platform — pushing, shoving, bumping with luggage — I thought: ‘Even if Pierre is here, I could never find him in this mob; but I am sure I’d feel his presence, in this semi-darkness.’ — And there was Pierre! So tall, so straight, in his uniform that fitted him! We seemed to be suddenly in an oasis of calm; as if everyone in the world had disappeared except ourselves. All my tiredness fell away and I felt as though I had wings! Though Pierre looked different in his uniform and with his military haircut, he seemed to me the most beautiful thing in all the world.
‘But what made you enlist?’ I asked when we were alone. ‘I thought you came only to help the Government: I never dreamed you were going to the front!’ He replied: ‘I, too, had thought that with my knowledge of so many languages I should be useful in the International Column, or in the International Red Cross, just behind the front-line trenches: but for either I’d have to pass a medical examination — which my disabled arm prevented.
‘All the jobs my friends found for me were nice, comfortable berths with good salaries, in the bureaucracy; and I did n’t leave France just to sit at a desk and sign papers! Then I got more and more disgusted with the nonchalance of everyone in Barcelona; with my fellow artists, especially, who are all unionized now and, whether or not they work at their job of making posters for the Government, draw their fifteen duros a week. So furious was I with Barcelona’s profiteering, I was almost ready to go back to France; but, at a café where I went with friends for the apéritif, I met a colonel whom I liked at once.
‘After conversation about the war, he exclaimed: “What a pity you are n’t an artilleryman!” “But I am an artilleryman,” I replied. “Then come with me,” he urged; “I need a trained man for the Observation Post; I have n’t one, as mine was killed a short while ago, and the man I put in his place does n’t know anything.” When we separated, he gave me the address of his battery, and told me to come if I decided to accept. I made my decision and, two days after, left for the front.’
So after enlisting, and in company with another man who enlisted at the same time, Pierre set out for Cuenca. The trip took three days — part of the way on the train, many hours in a jolting truck, and finally miles and miles on foot, in pouring rain, and more miles through snow.
At Headquarters there were no uniforms, and no arms; but that same night he was conducted to his Observation Post, two miles in advance of the lines, and left without even a pocketknife with which to defend himself in case of need. However, out of the kitchen he had ‘swiped’ a small portion of red pepper, with the idea of blinding any possible attacker!
At his post, the other observer rapidly reviewed Pierre in the science he had almost forgotten in the years since his military service; and next day he was left alone, with nothing but the telephone for company. A few days later a comrade lent him a sub-machine gun he had bought for himself; gradually he accumulated a few books; and, after ten days’ service in his tweed suit, he obtained a uniform.
‘At first,’ he told me, ‘it was terrible sleeping on the ground; but, remembering Lelia’s idea, I gathered pine tags, made a bed of them, and, rolling myself in my blanket, slept comfortably at last. I have a hole dug into the mountainside, into which I retire when it rains. It is about three feet deep; and there I have to cook, so the smoke will not betray our hideout to the enemy airplanes. I have to crouch inside, with the smoke. Ordinarily I am off duty every third day, although once I went nine days without relief.’
‘Were n’t you afraid?’ I asked. ‘Not exactly afraid. The worst moment I had was when we were firing on Teruel. We had shelled the barracks of the city twice during the week, and this third time the Commander called over the telephone for the angle at which to fire. Just as I had calculated the angle, I looked again through the telescope and saw women going into the barracks, and, to my horror, little children running about! The Rebels had cynically transferred the children’s school to the barracks.
‘“Give me the angle!” the Commander called impatiently. “Wait!” I answered. “There are children in the buildings!” “Give me the angle!” he ordered. “This is no time for sentimentality!” “But wait!” I implored. “It is n’t the barracks any longer. It’s a school.” “Then find the barracks!” he commanded. I did. The soldiers had moved into the convent on the outskirts of the town. I gave the angle, and we shelled them effectively. Seeing those children made me think of Martha — and their narrow escape was unnerving.’ We had so much to tell each other, we hardly slept at all. As I said, all my fatigue vanished as soon as I saw Pierre, and I wanted nothing but to look at him, and hear him talk.

ST. CIRQ-LA-POPIE
August 23, 1937
I have received a long letter from Pierre this morning, and I am so happy I want to send out to you all a ripple of my happiness. Pierre’s letter was six pages in length — a windfall after so many weeks of short notes and postcards. He says: —
‘ We are in Barcelona — thanks to a lucky break. During the course of battle, two of our cannon were damaged. We were sent to convoy them to the park, for repairs. At the park they told us that it would require four days for the work. This explains my presence in Barcelona.
‘I have hardly written at all, except for brief cards, because the campaign in which we have been engaged since the fifth of July has not yet ceased. We have had only brief moments of respite, insufficient to give us the rest that we all need so much.
‘During one combat, I saw several companies of German soldiers — mercenaries of Franco’s — attacking in square formation; marching in goosestep. It was incredible; so unreal that I would not have believed it without seeing it with my own eyes — there, just opposite me, and so near!
’Every day, there before us, is a formidable display of Italian and German armaments, brand-new machines, brilliant, shiny, fresh from the factories. And Moors! There are more of them every day. The more we kill, the more there are! And yet, in one single combat, in a field of wheat where they advanced en guerrilla, our comrades with machine guns mowed down more than five thousand.
‘Yesterday we, the nine sole survivors of our battery, had a banquet, paid for by the remains of the funds of the battery. We had soup of fish, mussels, rougets; a small lobster apiece; fruit cup, and a dozen bottles of wine. The painful bill was 400 pesetas — the equivalent of a month and a half in the trenches to pay for it! But we bore up under the surprise, because we had planned to spend the last penny of our funds, due us as “sole survivors.”
‘ During the meal there was an air raid over Barcelona, as there is nearly every night. Without light — except for a bit of candle — we continued our meal alone, while the other diners in the restaurant and all the waiters raced to the underground refuges. At midnight we married artillerymen went home. The unmarried ones continued their celebration, which they have no intention of stopping until the moment they take their train back to the front. It’s the heedlessness of youth. They are right in calling me “Grandfather.” ‘While in Barcelona, I have made a demand, at the Ministry, for a leave to go to France. It may take a long time; but I believe it will be granted.’

ST. CIRQ-LA-POPIE
October 4, 1937
I am sitting in the kitchen, writing, with Pierre beside me! It seems so divinely natural to look up and see him sitting in the big rustic armchair, writing, that I can hardly remember that he was away for eight whole months. The kettle is singing on the fire, and in a few minutes we will stop our writing and have tea, toasting our tartines as we have always done, with Martha racing in, curls flying, to hug Pierre and get her goûter. Martha went back to curls on her birthday, giving as the reason that the weather was getting colder and she needed the extra warmth. I was glad that she did, because she looked like herself again, and I wanted Pierre to feel she had n’t changed much in his absence.
Every day I had raced through the dishwashing and house cleaning to have everything in order for Pierre’s arrival on the nine-o’clock train. Martha or I would go to the village gate and wait for him. When Margot Simbel would puff up the hill with the mail sack, we’d ask: ‘Was Father at the station?’ ‘Was my husband at the station?’ ‘There was nobody at the station,’ she’d reply, and push her bicycle on up to the post office. I felt like Penelope, minus the suitors, or like Madame Butterfly. When the train had passed, and there was no hope of his coming, the day stretched before me endlessly, like a desert that had to be crossed. Reluctantly I’d eat the cake that had been made for his home-coming.
And each morning I’d rise with the same hope. I went down to take up my vigil at the gate. ‘Margot, did my husband come?’ I called as I saw her coming up the hill. ‘No, not to-day,’ she smiled. As I turned to go, she laughed: ‘I was just fooling. He’s behind me. He stopped to talk to someone.’ I raced down the road and into the arms of Pierre!
He looked taller, thinner and grayer; but, though he had lost twenty pounds, he had n’t lost a hair. As we went through the street, peasants ran out of every house to wring his hand. The men all hugged and kissed him, the women shook his hand vigorously. After we had breakfasted together in front of the fire, Pierre went up to the school to get Martha. Martha was deliriously happy, and poured out in an incessant, excited stream all the things she had been saving to tell him all these months. I stayed at home to prepare lunch. Pierre continued his triumphal march through the village, with Martha chattering at his side.
At the table, Martha sat so close to Pierre and talked so fast she could hardly eat. We celebrated his return with champagne, and the remains of Martha’s birthday cake which we had saved for him. And there was still some of his home-coming cake left. All I wanted to do was look at Pierre, listen to him, and touch him from time to time to make sure he was real.
Late in the afternoon we went to see the Vinots. Pierre and M. Vinot swapped war stories. M. Vinot was an aviator during the Great War, and he particularly wanted to know what progress tank warfare had made since the last war. Pierre explained how they placed the zigzag fences of copper wire through which ran strong electric currents to stop the tanks, and how they had special bombs with handles to throw under the tanks as they advance. One of his comrades was marvelous at throwing these bombs. He hid in a depression in the ground, and, when the tanks advanced, unafraid he would throw the bombs with fearful accuracy. He was little, with the face and arms of a gorilla. Not a tank got past him.
As we watched the rain fall, looking out on our gardens, Pierre exclaimed: ‘Even the rain in France is gentle! You can’t know how terrible it is, on those parched mountains, for months without a drop of rain. Not to be able to wash your face and hands for two months! Not to have a drink of fresh water! One by one the springs on the mountainside dried up, until we had to go down to the foot of the mountain for water. And then the enemy encamped there, and we spent five days without a drink of water. Next the enemy encircled us in the rear, and took our hut with the reserves of food and ammunition. We were trapped there at the top of the mountain, on our crag, with nothing to eat or drink. Headquarters telephoned me to shoot any man who tried to desert his post.
‘I had foreseen for three weeks the manœuvres of the enemy. I saw ourselves being relentlessly encircled. It was only in the last few days that the men felt it, and it was heartbreaking to see them taking out the pictures of their families and sweethearts, rereading old letters, as we waited for reënforcements, or orders to escape. Other telephonists from other lines would call me, asking for news, hopeless and seeking cheer. As their hunger increased, the men picked up scraps they had thrown away weeks before, mouldy beans, rat-gnawed bread, parched lentils. We found one can of corned beef, which we divided among ourselves, ten of us, and on the fifth day they could n’t stand it any longer, and they killed and ate our mascot, poor little Mosquita!’
Pierre loved the lamb too much to eat her, and while the others ate he smoked at his post. They were the last cigarettes he had had from me. At the last all communications were cut. Each day more soldiers, trapped, joined Pierre up at the top of the mountain, until they were 1400, with two commanders and a captain or two. They were desperate, starved, with practically no ammunition. And stealthily up the mountainside crept Arabs in a surprise attack. They beat them off, and captured two. They tried to make the two reveal where the enemy was, and one of them promised to lead them out to safety if his life were spared. Pierre asked him which path he would take. The Arab pointed, and Pierre followed his indications with the telescope. The path led straight to the enemy headquarters. You can guess what happened to that Arab.
They waited until nightfall, and Commander Branco took command of all the 1400 soldiers, including Pierre and his ten at the observatory. Not leaving anything behind, Pierre carrying the telescope and a comrade carrying the tripod, they climbed silently down the mountain. Pierre had a gun and fifty bullets. The others had about five or six bullets apiece. He kept fifteen and divided the others among his ten men. At four in the morning they reached a narrow pass, which the enemy dominated with two lines of trenches, machine guns, and cannons. ‘It’s death either way, so it’s better to die fighting,’ the commander said.
He sent Pierre and another group up to storm the positions and in a hand-tohand fight distract the enemy so that the rest of the forces could race past down the valley. As they climbed the hill, they were swept by the withering blasts of the machine guns and cannons. There was nothing to hide behind but little scrubby knee-high junipers. ‘Pierre, I was at Brunete and Guadalajara, but I’ve never been through worse fire than this,’ one of his comrades hissed as they advanced. Blood was streaming from Pierre’s face and his legs, but they kept on and drove the enemy back from the front-line to the second-line trenches.
Looking down, they saw their other comrades racing madly down the valley, safely past the once-murderous battery of the enemy. Then Pierre and the others cut obliquely down the mountainside, and far down the valley joined the others. They could n’t stop, because the Fascist aviation roared in pursuit of them.
Though they had broken through one line of the encircling army, they were still in enemy territory, and marched on, haunted by airplanes and hidden nests of machine guns. After thirty hours of marching, they entered another narrow valley. Suddenly from one side of the mountain a black and red anarchist flag was waved to them from the entrenched positions. As they began to climb up towards the flag, down from the other side of the mountain raced an officer in Loyalist uniform, shouting: ‘Comrades, this way!’ They wavered, realizing that one side or the other was a trap. Pierre shouted to the officer: ‘Show us your Syndicate card!’ He took out his card, and at the same time with his left arm gave the Loyalist salute. And all along the top of the mountainside behind him they saw the sentinels saluting with their left arms, and crying: ‘Comrades! Hurry!’
As they turned to follow the officer, the soldiers waving the anarchist flag opposite threw it down and shouted: ‘ Viva it Fascia! ’ and troops farther down yelled: ‘Arriba España!’ and farther along, ‘Heil Hitler! Viva los Falangistas! ’ And down upon them rained bullets and overhead zoomed planes, dropping bombs that exploded all around them; and behind them, down the valley, lumbered tanks. The worn-out soldiers raced up the hillside, climbed over the parapets, and hung there, exhausted, shouting ‘Hurry! Hurry!’ to those too weary or too wounded to climb as fast as they. With horror they watched the tanks close in on those caught in the valley, five hundred of them. Commander Branco turned, and on his horse galloped down to help those pathetic five hundred. Down among them he whirled, through a hail of bullets, and as he reached them Pierre saw a bomb burst and Branco fall with his horse. He struggled, put his arms around his horse’s neck, and they both lay still. The enemy aviation attacked their parapets so fiercely that Pierre and his comrades had to take to cover, and did n’t see the sickening end of the others.
They were given food, but no bandages for their wounds, because there were n’t any to be had, nor even a bottle of iodine. They slept on the ground, and next day continued their march, with bleeding feet, back to where they found the rest of their brigade. Two days later Commander Branco wearily tramped in, leading the remnants of the band, four hundred and twenty-five of the five hundred. He would rather have lost his own life than that of his horse, which lay dead on the battlefield. Pierre had two leg wounds and his left hand was wounded. He was sent on with others to the hospital in Valencia, but there were n’t any beds, and they sent him on to Barcelona to his family. Luckily his wounds were only superficial and did n’t become infected. When he was well enough, he turned all his energies to getting a leave of absence in France, and after more than a month he finally got his passport.
Now that I have Pierre, it seems impossible to me that he can ever leave me again. When he passed his medical review, before coming here, the doctors offered to discharge him, if he wanted them to. But Pierre wants to do his duty to the end. I had thought he would have had enough, after that last experience. I had read in the newspapers that what might be Pierre’s part of the army was encircled, and, as the soldiers fled, the enemy captured them by the hundreds. Pierre laughed when I gave him the newspapers of those days to read: ‘Franco thought he had us! But we crossed over their dead bodies and lost only seventy-five men!’
Pierre says that if Italy does n’t send any more recruits ‘we’ll’ win before winter. But since his return the papers are full of the news of 75,000 soldiers that Mussolini is sending, and of the aeroplanes, and even his son, that he has sent to Majorca. Six hundred German soldiers landed in Cádiz, and were sent on to Sevilla two days ago. Things don’t look so promising for the Loyalists, but Pierre is n’t discouraged. If only the war would end before his leave is over! If only I could keep him here! But I shan’t think of his leaving, when he has just reached us!
Our love to you all,
LOUISE