15.12.2009, 04:57
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.
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.