16.12.2009, 04:42
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.
"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.