Sources
Letters from Josefina
As is usually the case some half-forgotten items of the past came to light recently when I was looking for something else. The small bundle of letters from Fina brought back in an instant the sights and sounds of over 40 years ago in Catalonia and the hospital de sangre in Matero, north of Barcelona.
The building had originally been El Colegio de Valldemia, run by the Marist Brothers, but was then a military hospital for the Republican forces in the civil war.
It was one of a number of hospitals which received the casualties from the battle of the Ebro which was launched in July 1938.
In March 1938 the Republic had suffered a very serious setback in the Aragon area. In April Franco captured Vinaroz, north of Valencia, cutting Catalonia off by land from central Spain.
While holding Franco's forces along the line of the river Ebro the Government proceeded with the creation of a new army in Catalonia, the Army of the East. The 15th (International) Brigade, which had received a severe mauling in the Aragon disaster, was a part of that new Army. Fresh recruits continued to cross the Pyrenees illegally to fill the gaps in the ranks.
In one such group comprising volunteers from all over Europe which crossed the Pyrenees by night at the end of March 1938 were five Irishmen, Jack Nalty and Patrick Duff who were returning to the Brigade after a short spell in Dublin recovering from wounds, James O'Regan from Cork, Hughie Hunter from Belfast and myself from Dublin.
When I say that 4 months were to pass before we fired a shot in anger the contrast with the situation in which the early lot volunteers were involved will be obvious. Nobody could complain about lack of training before going into action. Those who arrived in 1936 and 1937 had the toughest time of all, some of them scarcely having time to get used to the feel of a rifle.
After much travelling round Catalonia from one camp to another the moment arrived for which all the training had been a preparation. This was the crossing of the river Ebro in July 1938, the battle in which the Republic captured in 2 days territory which it took Franco over 4 months to win back.
It always amuses me that I am regarded by some as a 'veteran' of the Spanish Civil War. In fact, my experience of warfare (in the sense of direct contact with the enemy) was of short duration, although not exactly painless.
On the second day after crossing the river and after some minor skirmishes with isolated groups left behind by the retreating enemy we had advanced to within a short distance of the town of Gandesa the capture of which was vital to the success of the whole operation. It was impossible to occupy the town without dislodging the enemy from the hills which formed a natural defensive barrier in front of it. These hills were strongly fortified and the troops well dug in.
We on the other hand lay strung out along the top of the Sierra Cabals with some straggly bushes in front of us. (I wondered how they managed to grow in the iron hard ground.) There was no time to do anything about this lack of cover since time was on Franco's side. Now that the element of surprise was over every minute that passed meant that the defences were being further strengthened with more troops, tanks, planes and artillery.
Since Franco's troops didn't exactly stand up and wave their hands there was no question of pinpointing a target. It was a matter of banging away at the hill in front of us in preparation for going 'over the top' in an effort to capture it by direct assault. Shortly after the commencement of this engagement I received a bullet wound in the left foot.
A short distance away in a valley was the small town of Corbera and it was to a building there that the wounded were brought. There were already dead and dying lying on the floor when I arrived. The following day, 27th July, together with those of the wounded who had survived the night, I was in Matero hospital some 100 miles from the battlefront.
Although I took this for granted at the time it is an indication of the high level of efficiency of the whole operation. 50,000 men had to be transported across the 100-yard wide river against enemy held territory. In addition, all the supplies necessary to maintain them and to keep crossing in a steady flow. Bridges had to be built to take this traffic. During the hours of daylight Franco's bombers were up and down the river bombing everything in sight. Bridges had to be rebuilt again and again. Men and supplies continued to come over.
It is easy to imagine the mass of organisational detail that was involved, the endless possibilities of muddle and administrative confusion and even military disaster. In the midst of all this a constant stream of wounded had to be brought back over this same river and transported to various hospitals in Catalonia which had been made ready to receive them. And this was all done. And not just during the initial stages when it could be said that Franco had been taken by surprise but during the whole period of the battle. (After all this time, when nearly half a century has passed, it might be thought possible to look back with a less painful eye on these events but it is still a bitter thought that this high endeavour came to nothing as a result of the non intervention policy of Britain and France.)
Mataro hospital was run by American doctors and nurses with a mixed medical staff including refugees fro Hitler Germany. Mataro itself was a quiet, seaside town and only once do I remember the noise of war reaching us, the sound of explosions which, we were told, came from an air raid on Barcelona about twenty miles further south.
As the Ebro battle got under way there was a steady intake of wounded which kept the staff busy. Many of them were from my own number 4 Company of the British Battalion, Morris Davies from Wales who was the Company Commander, the Cypriot Michael Economides who was the political commissar, Jim O'Regan of cork, Frank Airlie from Newcastle, and as the days and weeks dragged on the list of the dead grew longer, Paddy O'Sullivan, Bill McGregor, David Guest, Jack Nalty.
Sam Wild, the Battalion Commander who, in spite of being wounded, had to be persuaded to leave the front line, same to see me and in a typically gruff unsentimental way gave me some hardboiled eggs, a great treat.
The 'walking wounded' were always a source of envy to the bedridden. (My own wound had turned gangrenous which necessitated a below-the-knee amputation.) One American, not meaning any harm, used to sit on the end of my bed and boast of his prowess in the local casa be putas and of the enormous size of the oranges which grew in his native Florida, at least, I think it was Florida. Since we never saw any oranges, which were mainly for export, that bit didn't help either. One night he was stopped in his tracks by the frightful wailings of someone who appeared to be undergoing an operation without an anaesthetic, this was our introduction to the flamenco style of singing.
In one of the beds next to me was another American, Gus Mikades, with a piece of shrapnel in his neck near the jugular vein. The operation which would be required to remove it would be very risky. Tudor Harte, the English chief surgeon, was quite prepared to have it done in America where he would have a better chance of survival. Gus decided to wait. (While in London in 1939 I received a letter from Jim O'Regan telling me of the sad news of his death in Beth Israil Hospital, N. Y. in January of that year.)
The 'national question' really came home to me in Matero. As far as the staff was concerned all those who spoke English (except the Americans for some inexplicable reason) were 'Ingeleses'. Trying to explain the difference between English, Irish, Scots and Welsh wasn't easy. It puts a large dent in one's national pride to realise that 'Iranda' doesn't immediately evoke a look of comprehension. Some there were who thought the name of the island of Ireland was 'de Valera.'
The German doctor in the ward liked to brush up his English. 'How do you say "more good"? Ah, better. So, you are better? I remember his sadness when the news came through in September of the Government's decision to withdraw the International Brigades and repatriate all foreigners, He would now be a displaced person.
"You have a country to go? Yes? You are lucky".
Just as the patients were of all nationalities so were the nurses. In my ward, in addition to the Spanish girls, there was an American, a Rumanian and an English girl. During the long, hot days of that summer they did everything in their power to make conditions as comfortable as possible, never sparing themselves in attending to the needs of the wounded.
Barbara, the cool English nurse, told me one morning that I had 'a beautiful heart'. Since she was talking my pulse at the time I could only regard it as a purely medical observation and consequently derived no particular pleasure from it. In fact, it merely highlighted the lack of any comparable praise when, later in the morning, she was giving me a blanket bath.
Dora, the Rumanian, was very forthright and explosive, in several languages. On hearing someone boast, in Spanish, that he could learn any language in a week she burst out in a loud voice which I was sure could be heard in Barcelona "NO POSSIBLE APRENDER UNA LENGUA EN UNA SEMANA".
The American nurse, who never stopped informing all and sundry that she was 'fully qualified', was indignant that she spent most of her time in routine duties instead of attending to casualties at the front. 'I keep telling them I want to be a frontline nurse.'
But, of the Spanish nurses, Josefina was the real centre of our lives, the calm, even-tempered, soft-spoken one who never erupted, whatever the pressure, into streams of explosive language and wild gesticulations.
I liked to think that I was her special concern and that when she addressed me as 'Rubito' this wasn't just a nickname for any eejit with red hair but, in my case, a term of endearment. (A capacity for self-deception is very therapeutic.)
Her mother came on a visit one day and, as a result, I found myself in possession of a bottle of champagne. It seemed amusing to me then, and still does, that the first and only time I ever tasted champagne, which I had always associated with high living, degeneracy and bloated capitalists, was in Spain during a period when the very stuff of life was rationed. I can't remember whether or not there were 'beaded bubbles winking at the brim' and I have no intention of buying a bottle of the stuff to find out if it behaves in this way) but that was the phrase which occurred to me at the time and always does when any drink which I regard as exotic is mentioned.
The last time I saw Josefina in Matero she was on night duty. Seated at her desk at the entrance to the ward, in a circle of light from the table lamp, she wrote her report.
But there was to be a brief encounter the following December. On the train to the French border town of Cerbere she was one of a group of nurses accompanying the wounded. We drank coffee together in the station café.
The first letter I received from Fina was early in 1939 after the fall of Catalonia. On the left hand margin of the envelope was written in her own handwriting, Saludo a Franco! Arriba Espana! The letter itself was headed 'Ana de la Victoria.'
Whether these references to Franco's victory were compulsory as a kind of sadistic revenge on the defeated republicans, all of whom couldn't be shot, or whether they were intended by the writer to mollify the censor is not clear. A letter received in the following July is similarly headed. Subsequent letters are free from slogans.
Written in a very lyrical style, especially when referring to her two great consolations, nature and music, she constantly mentions her 'dear parents', 'mis amados padres'. Only once does a practical note creep in, almost reluctantly it seems. In a letter dated 23rd October 1939 it is mentioned that her family has received news that her brother, Mario Casals, is in one of the refugee camps in France, Campo de Mesmil, les-Hurlus. (The fall of Catalonia led to a mass exodus across the French frontier where many thousands of refugees were confined under appalling conditions in various camps.) Is it possible that some of my friends can help him? The sad result of my enquiries is that, although assistance of various kinds can be dispatched to the camps, nothing can be done for individuals.
(Some months previously I had read a piece in the London New Statesman and Nation by a Marcalino Sanchez who had been in the St. Cyprien refugee camp. This had been used for German prisoners of war in 1914/18. He had spoken to a French officer about the inhuman conditions. The officer's reply was: 'You Spaniards area hardy lot. We had the German was prisoners in this camp and they died at the rate of some sixty a day. I cannot understand it. Your death rate is only fifteen a day. Wonderful!)
In the same letter I am reproached for using the formal 'usted' instead of 'tu' which would please her better, 'as mucho agradable y familiar.'
She is well aware that every sentence I write involves a laborious search for the right word and a careful avoidance of the pitfalls of a foreign language. 'Yo comprendo que no podias escribir sin diccionario.'
Such a correspondence was destined to falter and eventually to cease, especially amid the pressures of wartime London. Or so I convinced myself at the time.
Fina's last letter, from Malaga, is dated 11.1.43. 'Cuanto tiempo sin saber de ti!. .Has olvidado ya a Fina?'
The passing of time has not diminished the feeling of guilt. And how little is required to bring it all back, a scrap of paper, the shape of a face, the swish of a skirt.
Eugene Downing
More material by/about Eugene is also available on this site:
There are 2 obituaries available about him: One by Manus O'Riordan, the other appeared on the Indymedia site.
In September 2000 Eugene was interviewed by Ciaran Crossey and John Quinn about the SCW.
Here is Eugene's 5 page version of the notes from that discussion.
A [funny] article about Eugene's street politics in the mid 1930's - Street Journalism.
A letter to the Irish Times about Mattie Ryan, Pandit Nehru and a shooting exhibition.
The Plaque on the Wall, a report of a visit back to the hospital in Spain.
An interesting piece from Saothar, on Moscow's International Lenin School, attended by Bill McGregor, an IB volunteer.
A funny piece about a brief period when Eugene was in charge.
The Siege of Connolly House. An interesting piece about a siege of the place the CP offices.
A letter to the Irish Times about the catholic church's refusal to allow a funeral service for
IB volunteer Tony Fox.
Would anyone who knows of further articles by Eugene please get in touch.
Ciaran Crossey
Belfast, 6th August 2003. cpcrossey@hotmail.com
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