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(FICTION) - The American Tent - Printable Version

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(FICTION) - The American Tent - caldrail - 13.12.2009

The early months of 1937 were still exciting for a neophyte aviator like myself. Howard Hughes had set another record flying across America, a japanese aeroplane had landed in Croydon for the first time, and more soberly, the Spanish town of Guernica had been bombed ruthlessly by German aeroplanes. I always remember that newsreel I saw in the cinema at the end of Farthing Road in London. An American reporter stood in front of a camera and extolled the virtues of Germany. A strong ruler, the most forward thinking nation. I had misgivings of course. You heard stories of course, rumours of darker things and so forth.

By chance I heard that pilots were being hired by the Spanish to fight facist rebels. In my youthful enthusiasm to make a difference, I made enquiries, being told more than once to go away and earn a steady living. Out of obstinate ire, and no shortage of rebelliousness on my part, I persisted, and a gentleman of dubious background at the flying club put me in touch with the recruiters for the Fuerzas A

- Ostrogoth - 13.12.2009

I eagarly await the next chapter.

- Plumps - 13.12.2009

Wouldn

- ArcticViper - 13.12.2009

Very nice

Moved to Spray & pray, thanks for pointing that out Smile

A Midnight Stroll - caldrail - 14.12.2009

The night was warm and sticky, typical of the late summer, with the quiet chirping of crickets adding to the ambience of my first Spanish night at the field. Unable to sleep, both due to the humid air and my excitement, I decided to take a stroll.

Most of the camp had retired for the evening. Here and there I heard conversations in tents, sometimes a shared joke or the loss of cash in a late night game of cards by lamplight, sometimes no more than the snoring of men who somehow managed to find some sleep. A few soldiers paced wearily here and there, one trying a bottle left by the fireside in the hope there was something to be had from it, throwing it aside into the grass when it became clear it was already discarded.

I reached the line of fighters. It was difficult to see them in the dark, for although the sky was wonderfully clear and full of stars, the ground was pitch black. In the dim light from unattended camp fires I could see the outline of the fuselage and wings, the ribbed control surfaces covered with doped linen made three dimensional in long shadows. I approached the nearest aeroplane and touched it. Such an inanimate object, yet one that would spring to life tomorrow, flying to war and facing combat against enemy aeroplanes amongst the clouds.

There was a shout. A rifle shot broke the spell of the evening. I saw three guards running toward me and realised I had sparked an alert. My feeble attempts to placate them made no difference. As they arrived and shouted at me, one smacked my legs with a rifle butt and brought me down. They didn't listen and I couldn't understand their insistent demands for who knows what. Not that it mattered. I couldn't have made myself heard.

At last another figure strode out toward me. Silhouetted in firelight I saw a figure in jackboots and an officers uniform, calmly placing his cap upon his head. Most of the guards snapped to attention, with at least one holding me in place, a pointless exercise since I couldn't run with that bruising.

The guards quickly explained the situation to the officer, who gave a quiet order. Another guard ensured I was held on my knees, one pulling my head back with a rough grip on my hair. It was the officer who spoke to me, asking a question I couldn't understand, breaking open his revolver to check it was loaded, snapping it shut, then asking his question again, adding something in a tone that sounded like a warning.

It dawned on me I was about to suffer a summary execution. They thought I was a saboteur! Harry had warned me these men were trigger happy and how scared I was to discover he was right.

From the left another man ran into view. It was Harry James, stripped to the waist, woken by the commotion and trying to stop this Spaniard from ending my little adventure in ignomy on the very first night. They exchanged words, Harry pleading, placating, the officer shaking his head and gesturing at me. At last the officer was silent, and Harry bent down to talk to me.

"You are one crazy son of a bitch. This guy behind me is Berentes. Emilio Berentes. The Commandant. You remember that name, Son. He likes wine, sleazy girls, and shooting idiots like you... Look, I've persuaded him not to shoot you tonight. But he says you've broken the rules."

The officer said something in a flat tone, a reminder, urging Harry to finish his conversation.

"Sorry Son. This is going to hurt you pretty bad. Nothin' I can do anything about that."

Harry stood back and the beating began.

- ArcticViper - 14.12.2009

Moved back to reference center. Due to review and prompt for review by author.

Thread provides contemporary impressions of for instance the I-16, which I do consider reference.

Cheers
Arctic

Sick Leave - caldrail - 15.12.2009

When the beating began, I soon lost any sense of what was going on. There were voices, periods of quiet, a hard surface that rocked under me in the dark.

When I finally regained my senses, a woman approaching forty years of age finished wrapping bandages around me. Her dark hair was pulled back tight under the nurses cap that bore a red cross upon it, her sharp features underlying the professional detachment of her trade.

"Welcome back, Mister Byers." She said without really looking at me. This wasn't the tent I expected. I stared up at the beams of a gloomy ceiling above me. A few distant groans and coughs alerted me to the others lying around the interior of what seemed to be an old church, filled with wounded men, most just sitting or lying there waiting until someone came to order them back into the line. They were soldiers, half in civilian clothes, made silent by the impossible obstacle of so many nationalities and languages in the same room.

"Is he coming round, sweet pea?" Said Harry, leaning over the woman's shoulder.

"Ah ah ah... " She slapped him back. "This is strictly business Harry. I don't do house calls, you know that. This boy needs patching up, you need bromide."

"Mae, you sure know how to break hearts."

"Then be grateful I fix them too. You just sit there and behave. I'm looking after my gallant flyboy."

Harry withdrew a little gracelessly. Sat on the next bunk, he began speaking to me. "You got off light back there, Son. But you're in good hands now. Mae here is with the American Medical Bureau. She's a friend..."

"Harry!" She warned him off

"Okay, okay... A nurse I happen to know."

"And the only one willing to get up in the middle of the night with you banging on our door. Jesus, Harry, the kid's got bruises all over. Can't you flyers get along with each other?"

"We do fight sometimes, Mae... Well, Son, now you know how things get done around here. I guess by now you might be thinking about high-tailing it home. Wouldn't blame you if you did, but...You might get picked up and accused of desertion. So you're kind of stuck here for now... How's he shaping up, Mae?"

"Oh my flyboy is doing just fine, Harry. Back in the saddle before you know it. Wouldn't want you boys kept out of the fight just because of a few bruises... A day or two of rest is all he needs... Speaking of which, I need sleep even if you boys like getting into scrapes all night."

Mae packed her paraphenalia in a case, and having the checked the way was clear of Harry's interference, got up to leave us. He reached out to take her hand and thanked her quietly. She gave him a shove and pushed him over on his side, an act which made Harry chuckle playfully.

Mae stopped out of Harry's reach and said to me "My name is Nurse Kowalski. You'll be just fine, Mister Byers, as long as you take it easy for a day or two. I'll check on you later tomorrow. Goodnight."

She gave a withering glance at Harry then vanished into the throng of men around us. Harry gave another chuckle to himself, then gave me the hard stare. "Do me a favour, Raymond? Think before you wander off, don't wander off alone, and dang well learn some Spanish before you do. Stay here at the hospital until I come get you. No wandering around, okay? I gotta go. You take care of yourself Raymond."

He slid from the bunk and strode away.

I tried to get up, wincing at the stiffness that held me back, and surrended to my sentence of several hours of painful rest in the field hospital. My stay was enlivened by a Swiss man, who named himself Roberto, a small lively man with a dangerous energy about him.

There were quite a few Swiss volunteers in the area, men who had joined the International Brigades in support of the Republic, and for his part, Roberto was unashamedly a communist. His war was to fight for his political agenda. For others, it was to fight against facism, or in case of some of the hardened characters in the field hospital, no more than a cause to fight for.

Of course Roberto sounded me out. He wanted to know what I stood for. When I told him I was here for the pay, for the adventure, a chance to test myself against the world, he gave me an intense lecture on the benefits of communism. It seemed wiser to let him vent his political feelings, but in the end even he realised I wasn't interested. He wrote me off and went off to find someone else with whom to discuss the evils of the world, as if the evil of Spanish violence wasn't enough to satisfy his need for belligerence.

At dawn I heard the machinegun fire, far away, the long rattles audible for some distance. A couple of deep thuds signified explosions. Within an hour, I heard the sharp drone of aero-engines. I should have been with them. A part of me knew I would have had to wait until someone was satisifed I was properly able to handle the Mosca's, but I felt the disappointment nonetheless.

Another explosion sounded closer. Then I heard the drone of larger planes, the irregular crump of anti-aircraft guns, but oddly, the expected sound of aerial fighting never seemed to happen. The fight was however far from where I lay. We all waited in that hospital, exchanging meaningful glances between men who couldn't understand each others language.

By mid-morning the attack responsible for the sound of battle had subsided. At lunchtime a fresh batch of injured men were dragged and lifted into the old church, some in a very bad way. A Spanish doctor, a bald headed man with round glasses and a bloodstained suit, made an urgent attempt to perform the surgery on the worst injuries. Mae Kowalski was among the nurses who dealt with all the minor issues, tired, but grimly determined to administer whatever medical care she could.

Before the day was out I saw a gentleman wandering around, looking for someone who spoke english. With his notepad in hand I wondered if he was a reporter, a journalist, or if my recent experience was anything to go by, some sort of Spanish agent. Should I speak to him? What could I tell him? As it turned out, his journalistic instinct was well-honed, and he almost sensed I was an english-speaking person. He sat next to me, savouring the array of bandages wound around my person, and hoped for tales of horror in war to thrill and appall his readers at home. Imagine his incredulence when I informed him I only got here a day or two ago.

Swift Goodbyes - caldrail - 16.12.2009

After three days the sporadic fighting in the area meant the shortage of hospital beds was becoming an embarrasement. Doctor Cierna brought the matter to a head decisively, making an inspection of my injuries, muttering to himself under his breath.

"I think, senor Byers, you are quite well. You should go back to your escadrillo."

It wasn't a suggestion, however politely the doctor phrased it. He saw my hesitation as a sign of agreement. He was after all a man used to hearing excuses offered by faster witted men than me.

"I will arrange to have you taken to your unit." He said, pulling my face to one side and studying the bruise under my eye. "There are men going your way. Wait out front. Goodbye and good luck to you."

He was already moving to his next patient. The man had lain there for two days barely moving. He paused, looked closer, then summoned a nurse whom he spoke with in Spanish. By now I had learned a little of what happens to a man wounded in warfare. That man, one of the Swiss volunteers, had a leg going gangrenous and would shortly lose it altogether.

My part in the daily affairs of this hospital were over. I left and came down the steps outside. A few trucks were waiting in the road, a crowd of scruffy warriors milling around before a journey. As I looked up and down the street I noticed Mae was sat beside the door, taking a break with a cigarette. She saw me but said nothing. An ambulance was heading slowly toward us, lurching from side to side on the cobbled road, no doubt laden with wounded men from the trenches not three miles to the west..

"How do you cope with all of this?" I asked her.

She flicked ash from her cigarette as she considered her reply. "Just another hospital, Mister Byers. Just a little bit worse than some of them."

"I really don't understand. Why are you here? This is a war, for crying out loud."

She looked down for a moment. "Guess I got bored of San Diego. They needed nurses who spoke Spanish. So I volunteered. Just like you."

"Hey!" Called a man in loose fitting clothes over which he hung webbing and various odds and ends he thought a war demanded. "You are the englishman, yes? You come with us now."

"I have to go, Mae, I'll see..."

"That's Nurse Kawolski to you, Mister Byers."

"Hey!" Came a reminder from man by the truck. Mae wasn't about to let herself get attached so easily. A part of me understood her need to keep a distance.

She noticed my pained expression and sighed. "Listen... Oh crap, you're as bad as Harry. Just try not to get shot up, okay?. I get bored of seeing the same old faces."

I bent down and kissed her cheek. She glanced up with a world weariness. "Get outta here."

The passenger seat in the cab of the truck was empty and I took advantage of the comfort, which I suspect had more to do with doctors orders than any generosity on the part of the men sat on the flatbed behind me. With a very rural pace the lorry pulled away. I raised my hand in a farewell gesture to her as she sat on the steps drawing on her cigarette. She made no recognition of it.

The lorry made its way along the dirt road mindful of the precarious seating the men on the back had to suffer. We passed a family crowded on a wagon pulled by a faithful mule, despondent people leaving their home behind.

By the time I heard the shot the driver had taken a bullet in the shoulder. He yelled in pain and promptly lost control of the truck. It rolled into a ditch, scattering the load of soldiers on the back either by accident or a swift decision to stay out of the line of fire. I heard another shot or two as I slid out the door, pulling the injured driver with me as best I could. He gritted his teeth against the pain, both of his wound and my rough handling.

We fell into the roadside ditch in front of the abandoned truck. A bullet went through the mudguard that made the thin metal vibrate. A number of men landed in the ditch alongside us, some behind where the truck had ended up. The nearest man to me reached across to check the driver and muttered under his breath at his incapacitation.

Beyond him a man fell back onto the side of the ditch, slumping awkwardly at the bottom. There was no doubting he had met his maker. His rifle was passed to me along with a bandolier, quickly retrieved from the dead mans body. There was no chance of refusing the offer from the man who held the Russian bolt action rifle at me with stern insistence. The Mosin-Nagant 7.62mm had some scratches in the wooden stock, recording the name of the man who had been killed a few moments ago as the owner of the gun.. Rest in peace Victor. Whoever you were.

The shooting went on for half an hour, finally coming to an end when a rickety armoured car barreled down the road and sprayed the ridge with machine gun fire. Most of the rag-tag crowd of soldiers rushed from the ditch and crept up the hill, pursuing our unseen assailants with occaisional pot shots at anything that moved on the hillside.

The driver had expired too. There was a curious look of peacefulness in his expression. With a rope attached the armoured car hauled the truck out of the ditch for us, and the few men still there got aboard. The men scouring the hills for guerillas would be busy for an hour or two yet. I heard a shot ring out. Hit or miss, over the ridge the war went on.

My war continued too. When our truck came over the rise I saw the airfield ahead, stretched out in the yellow grass, one or two aeroplanes moving around. In the clear blue sky above me, a solitary Mosca growled on its way past, preparing to turn in for a landing. My enthusiasm for flying was still there, rekindled by the sight of seeing one of those fighter planes swooping in on a long curving approach.

Left at the field as the truck carried on down the road to whatever battle awaited it, I began to walk toward the gate. I had expected a stressful negotiation with obstinate guards. Instead, to my relief and confusion, the men on duty simply stood there without any attempt to challenge my identity. Perhaps I carried all the identification I needed on my face. The Sargento watched me while he brushed away the flies.

Perhaps it was inevitable I would encounter Commandante Berentes. He stepped down from a shabby house by the track and looked across, noticing my approach, placing his forage cap on his head and tapping a riding crop against his leg. He looked at me without any regard whatsoever, and indeed, showed more interest in the sight of me carrying a rifle.

I stopped short of him and looked back for an instant, then stood to attention and saluted, at least in the english fashion. Berentes merely grimaced and carried on his way.

Finding the tent with a 'stars and stripes' pennant wasn't too hard. True to form I found Harry asleep inside, an empty bottle resting in his hand, sleeping off his boredom as only he knew how. I slipped the rifle under my bunk and looked through my belongings, finding a few choice items gone.

An older man in a leather coat called me from the tent. He nodded and said "You are Raymond Byers, si?... Bueno. I am Sargento Valera. Come with me now, Senor Byers, and I teach you to fly. Commandante Berentes says you have spent enough time with pretty nurses. Come. I show you aeroplane."

To my horror the aeroplane was a ramshackle biplane, a type I'd never seen before, but reminiscent of a Curtiss Jenny with a radial engine. Another leather coat was draped over the cockpit, and one Valera threw at me with a fatherly smile. He was well at ease with the procedures involved in flying aeroplanes. I climbed into the front seat with Valera sat waiting in the rear. He tapped me heavily on the shoulder and gestured for me to carry on.

My first flight was to be off the cuff, in an aeroplane I didn't know, in skies potentially live with enemy aircraft. On the other hand, the logic was inescapable. If I couldn't fly this biplane, I had no business being here. And that, I suspect, was the entire point of the test.

Learning Curve - caldrail - 20.12.2009

With the throttle lever moved to the 'full' position the engine picked up noise, a harsh roar and a buffetting backwash from the propellor. The biplane began to roll forward. It wobbled from side to side on the rough grass, bumping around and feeling a little unsteady. As it gained speed the controls felt more effective, and in particular the rudder came alive. To my great relief this was a forgiving aeroplane. Responsive but not overly sensitive. At first Valera had me performing circuits and bumps. The biplane was stable and an eagre flying machine, and whilst I couldn't describe it as a joy to fly, it certainly wasn't a chore.

It was either the seventh or eighth approach when I saw the red flare shoot up. I had been warned off from landing. Looking over side I saw no reason for such a warning. Following Valera's shouts and insistent gestures we flew to another landing strip some miles southeast, landing at the site of an abandoned country house.

Once the engine had been cut and it rattled to a halt, the silence was conspicuous. I'd become accustomed to the noise and after cutting the engine there was that odd sensation of pressure on the ears.

According to Valera, it looked as if the squadron was moving to this site and that may well have been the reason for the red flare. That annoyed me. I had no choice but to hope that Harry would pack my gear, and given he was sleeping off a bottle of booze I didn't hold out much hope.

Before long the Mosca's started arriving. I watched them approach, noting the tail up attitude that brought them in on the mainwheels, sometimes bouncing gently into the air again or drifting along barely above the grass, and the frantic rudder work was obvious.

My thoughts were disturbed by Valera. He ushered me toward the nearest Mosca which had rolled to a halt some yards from where the biplane was parked. The pilot jumped out of the cockpit and off the wing, looking askance at us as he removed his helmet. Valera gave him instructions which pleased the man not one bit, but ultimately he stood to attention and nodded before he walked away with a severe case of disapproval.

Valera had me step into the aeroplane. The cockpit was roomier than the snug open top suggested. Thanks to the barrel shaped fuselage, I was able to sit inside quite comfortably. It had a similar crude simplicity to the biplane. There was little to control other than the bare essentials.

"Maňana... You fly Mosca, si?.. Aha! Now, you listen? You have mucho speed when you land... You should not land with mucho speed in Mosca. Always keep wings level, or it turn. Always a Mosca turn, left, right, always want to spin around on wheels. Very short avione, si? So... Always mucho rudder. Mucho rudder! Fly by your trousers, si? Comprend